


.for the love of the game.

by melodramaticglassescharacter



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Absent Parents, Basketball, Drama, Emotional, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Japanese B League - basketball, M/M, Melancholy, Mentioned Generation of Miracles, Mid-life Crisis, Midorima has a son, Midorima has a son?, Parenthood, Post-Divorce, Pro Basketball Player Aomine Daiki, Pro Basketball Player Kagami Taiga, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sports, actor!kise, and everywhere, bartender!Midorima, billionare!Akashi, he came from nowhere, if kise ryota passed u the blunt, kuroko no moustache, kuroko x midorima, kuroko's magic moustache, lawyer!Midorima, life gets hard after high school, rediscovering the joy of life, sneaky!Kuroko, the basketball which kuroko plays - Freeform, what would u do?, where did dennis rodman come from?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27102022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodramaticglassescharacter/pseuds/melodramaticglassescharacter
Summary: what is buried in the graves we dig for ourselves, in the rubble of the bricks we build?This work takes place 20 years after the events of Kuroko No Basuke: LAST GAME.Life gets hard after high school.First-person narrative.Strong language, recreational drug use, sexual content, and adults finding that life can be pretty shit sometimes.
Relationships: Kuroko Tetsuya/Midorima Shintarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. .what do you love?.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, after losing his job, his marriage, his family, and his general desire to be alive, midorima shintaro spends some time in a hotel, and is inspired by the sight of an old teammate

.what do you love?. 

Man proposes. God deposes. I am a man that proposes. But, in the end, that means nothing to God. All of us spend our every waking moment building a tower up to the sky. Whether we know it or not, our lives are spent in pursuit of hope and happiness, labouring with shaking hands to build for ourselves these blessings that only God can give. We can stack our bricks to the very heavens should we wish, but there comes a time, for all of us, where God looks upon our labour and, with a contemptuous flick of His hand, topples it. And it is in this place that I find myself, surrounded by the overpowering drumming of brick after brick breaking to dust around me. 

It occurs to me, as I look across the living room at my wife, that this may be the last time I am inside this house that I worked so hard for. This beautiful house, on the outskirts of Tokyo, was clawed from the talons of one of the craftiest property lawyers in Japan, in the greatest victory of my now-extinct career; furnished with care and an exorbitant amount of money. I am quite fond of it. Yet despite this, everything that I own within this house is packed into bags and shut away in the spare room, as they have been for the past three days that Fujiko has been away. I may not like it, but I have accepted my fate. I am prepared for whatever comes. 

“Has Katashi had any luck letting his apartment?” 

Fujiko takes a deep breath at the realisation that I am now making conversation, but doesn’t say anything until she’s lit a cigarette. 

“Very good luck, which shouldn’t surprise you; he’s a Sagittarius. They’ve signed a deal for sixty-thousand yen per month above the asking price, and the new tenants move in six weeks from Wednesday.” 

She seems surprised that I asked, and it’s thrown her off balance. It says a lot that my asking any kind of question about her life is a shock to her; I can’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation. What shocks me more is the smoking. We both smoke; I have done since I quit the University basketball team, and she’s smoked for as long as I’ve known her, but for the eight years we’ve been married we’ve never smoked in front of each-other. In doing so, we’ve been able to pretend to each other that we’ve quit. Smoking in the house is the single biggest indicator that at the end of this conversation, this won’t be my house. 

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s a nice apartment; if I had that kind of money, I’d snap it up. Does he have plans to buy another house?” 

Fujiko looks at me the way she did when I promised her that there wasn’t a surprise party behind the door that I’d led her to, blindfolded, on her twenty-fifth. 

“Shintaro…” 

We both know exactly what’s going to happen, and I’ve lost so much recently that I’ve given up on trying to keep a hold of anything. What irks me, however, is that she hasn’t once asked me to give her the house. It is simply assumed that I’ll take the path of least resistance and let another man take my place. In truth, it’d be for the best at this point. My wife has been sleeping with another man for the last year and a half, and now wants me to give him my house, and the only thing that I’m getting worked up about it the fact that she hasn’t asked me… I really am a bad husband. Not for much longer, however. I guess there’s that. 

“I’m allowed to be concerned for him, Fujiko. I won’t hate him because of something you’ve done.” 

I’m very careful, as always, to say this without any hint of accusation; I’ve been non-confrontational for the entire duration of my marriage, and I don’t intend to stop that now. 

Fujiko, on the other hand, sighs and looks away from me. 

“You should, Shintaro… You should hate him for taking me away from you. You should hate him for sleeping with me, and for getting on so well with Hiro, and for driving that stupidly loud car…” 

A harsh chuckle racks her body, and I’m mildly surprised to see that she’s started to cry. She knows it’s goodbye as well. 

“I know I’m one-hundred present in the wrong here, I know that… But that fact that you’ve just let me leave you… it hurts, Shintaro. It does hurt. You haven’t shouted at me once in the months since you found out, you haven’t once said an unkind word to Katashi… you haven’t made any kind of effort to convince me not to leave you, and you haven’t even tried to fight me for custody of Hiro! I…”  
She takes another drag on her cigarette, and I breathe a sigh of relief as her emotional outburst fizzles out. We’re both in control now, as we always have been around each other. 

“It’s like you never loved me at all. It’s like you don’t love our son. Your entire world is being ripped apart because of me, and you smile that dead-man’s smile of yours and ask if Katashi’s let his house… Do you even care about anything?” 

\--- 

Inter-high Semi-Final 

Rakuzan High: 103 

Shutoku High: 101 

It’s nearing the end of the final quarter, and Akashi’s finally decided to switch and mark me himself. Mibuchi has improved a great deal since last year, it’s true, but Akashi must have a lot more faith in his team than I thought if he genuinely believed anybody other than himself would be able to mark me. In truth, I’d planned for this to happen from the very start, because this means that Takao is free to do what he does best… Before anyone can react, he’s crossed over his mark and snapped a pass off to Miyaji, following up with a screen to create him some space. This play would normally end with Miyaji drawing the defence in towards the rim and passing out to me for the three-pointer, but Akashi’s parked right in the passing lane. He knows my game so well, and the fact that his team are actually having to fight tooth and nail to beat us is only making him better. He’s got a smile on his face, which is nice to see… after all those years of mind-numbing victory at Teiko, we’re finally both having fun. Akashi’s convinced that he’s won this; the clock is running down, we need three points to take the game, and he’s locked down any passing lanes to me. Takao doesn’t have a good enough percentage from where he’s standing to attempt any kind of shot, and we’re such an outside-focussed team without Otsubo that we don’t have a hope of taking on Nebuya under the hoop. 

The clock continues to run down, and Akashi smiles at me. 

“This was a fun game, Shintaro… You are an exceptional player.” 

I offer him a slow, predatory smile. 

“Thank you, Akashi… Truly... But I’m a better player than you think.” 

I fake with my eyes, then sprint past him towards the hoop. My run shocks Akashi into a fatal moment of standstill before he follows, faster than any high school player should be able to. It isn’t fast enough. While Rakuzan was focused on my run, Miyaji kicked out to Takao on the outside and he fires the three… except it bounces off the backboard and falls directly into my path. It's not a shot; it’s a geometrically perfect pass directly into my hands. My heart is pounding with the thrill of movement. Akashi has almost caught up to me, but I don’t focus on him; I focus instead on the hulking form of Nebuya who runs out to meet me. 

“Get Takao!” Akashi screams, running to intercept the pass he knows I’m going to make… 

And this is when I know I’ve won. 

“Akashi”… My voice is heavy with gravitas, and the weight of this pivotal moment in our basketball careers… 

“There is more than one way to score three points.” 

Realising his mistake, Akashi begins to sprint back towards me, but Nebuya is already in the air to block me, and that’s exactly where I want him. I fake a layup, win the contact, and with the ease of somebody who has been practicing this all year, pull the ball back around in a technically perfect double clutch layup as Nebuya crashes to the ground. The ball rises high above the basket, and the backspin is perfect. It hangs in the air like a broken promise, held up with the bated breath of every player on the court. Except mine. I know my shot is true. 

The layup falls perfectly through the basket, as time stands still, and the score is tied. 

Akashi is frozen in shock, and doesn’t move, even as I make the free-throw with cold-hearted ease and the buzzer sounds on the restart. 

Rakuzan High: 103 

Shutoku High: 104 

My team explode into jubilation. I feel Takao crash into my back, screaming with excitement, and the entire sports centre vibrates with the sound of cheering. But amongst all this beautiful chaos, Akashi and I stand still, eyes fixed on one another. And I find that I cannot stop a slow, predatory grin from spreading across my face. I’m exultant, yes, but in this moment, I am the victor. 

“There is always next year… Captain”, I offer, and Akashi’s fingers start to shake almost imperceptibly as he offers his right hand for me to shake. 

“A worthy victory, Shintaro… You have impressed me, but I wonder if you have perhaps sacrificed a part of your strength in exchange for this one victory.” 

I look at his hand, and do not shake it for the time being. 

“If I have impressed you, it is because you have underestimated me. I do all that I possibly can, and I always carry my lucky item… That is why my shots never miss.” 

Akashi is silent for a brief moment, before letting his hand fall back to his side. 

“You really do remind me of myself sometimes, Shintaro… You smile like one three days dead.” 

He turns away and moves to line up with the rest of his teammates. 

\--- 

“No, I can’t say I have very much to care about now, Fujiko… you have always helped yourself to everything that I have made, and it would be unfair for me to suddenly deny you now.” 

Any chance I had to fight this has long since passed me by, and truth be told, I am not inclined to fight. No matter how much man imposes, God will always depose. I can only stand aside and watch him work. 

Fujiko’s disappointment in me is easy to read, and the fact that she is more disappointed in me than I am in her is not lost on either of us. She takes a deep breath… exhales. Takes a drawn-out drag on her cigarette… exhales. Until finally, in a voice that is Atlas under the weight of the sky, she asks me, 

“Where will you go?” 

That is as close to asking for my house as she’ll get, and I’m content to accept it. 

“I have money… well, assuming that doesn’t end up with you as well?” 

She shakes her head. 

“I won’t take your savings, no.” 

I chuckle darkly. 

“Just everything in the joint account… No, I’ll stay in a hotel for a few days while I try to figure out what to do about working again.” 

She nods gently. 

“You’ll stay in Tokyo?” 

“Yes… If that’s acceptable to you?” 

“Fuck what I think, Shintaro; let me worry about that. I… I’m not sorry. I won’t pretend I am, and I sure as hell won’t ask you to forgive me, but… I regret that your life turned out like this. I regret that you met me, and I regret that this… that I… have hurt you. I just… I just wanted you to know that this isn’t easy for me.” 

I blink slowly in acknowledgement, and stand up. This is it. This is where everything that defined the life I led is to be left… in a living room that is no longer mine to live in. 

“That’s regrettable… Because it’s easy for me. If I pass you in the street, I’ll acknowledge you, but… please don’t talk to me.” 

She nods in damp-eyed acceptance, and I make for the door, pausing to grab my coat. 

“Have Katashi load my things into the Hyundai tonight; I’ll pick them up when you’re at work tomorrow. I…” 

I pull my house keys out of my back pocket and toss them onto the coffee table. 

“These are yours, and…” 

I fumble with my wallet for a moment, and throw ¥1500 on top of the keys. 

“Take Hiro out for dinner after you pick him up from school… Tell him whatever you like, but please... speak kindly of me? I’ll have somebody contact you about divorce proceedings later in the week.” 

Shoes, coat, bicycle helmet, hi-vis jacket… 

“Shintaro?” 

I don’t turn around. 

“Have we not said everything necessary, Fujiko?” 

She lets out a low, spiteful chuckle. 

“When have we ever done that? No, I… Just...” 

She’s unsure, and I have the strangest feeling that these are the last words I will hear from my wife for quite some time. I turn, then – I will give her this, at least. Her eyes meet mine – deep brown as the earth, wide as the sky, and distant as the God who created them both. 

“Please, wherever you go… whatever you do… just... do something that you love? Please?” 

The quiver in her voice gently stirs some semblance of a heart in me, and for the briefest of moments, I am stunned. Such a simple request, and yet so far beyond anything that I know. 

Man proposes. God deposes. With ambition, careful planning, and calculated logic I have built the skyward tower that is my life, to blueprints and specifications chosen to complete my life in the most fitting and culturally acceptable way. And in His distant omnipotence, God has seen fit to scatter it to the winds, right down to the foundations. And as I look at the rubble, I see bricks, mortar, and not one iota of love or passion. There is no room for love in what I have built, and as I slowly blink and turn to leave the last remnants of my old life, I wonder what a tower built with love would look like. 

What do I love? 

“Goodbye, Fujiko.” 

I open the door. I take one last, deep breath of the air of all my ambitions. 

I leave and close the door behind me forever. 

\--- 

I have stayed in this hotel room before, and I have found it a comfortable place to be alone with my thoughts when the tower of my life begins to crumble. I have given and attended legal seminars here in the past, but my first stay here was the first of June last year. The night I came home from work and found another man in my bed. 

The staff know me by name, and bring coffee to the room each morning. I tip them generously. 

My room is spacious and clean. There is a good amount of storage space, in sensible places, and there is a balcony with a view that overlooks a public outdoor basketball court. I have smoked on this balcony frequently for the last six days and have seen nobody playing. 

A mind such as mine was not created to be idle, but without work to turn myself to, I have idled and rotted here. My laptop is full of half-written job applications, none completed. Every morning, I have decided that I will leave the hotel and do something, anything, to keep me busy, and every morning I have decided against it. For six entire days, I have sat on my arse and smoked. Two days out of six I haven’t even left my bed. I have started and abandoned fifteen different shows on Netflix, none of which have held my interest. I have watched various episodes of anime that I had left unwatched since my university days, and none have held my interest. I have scrolled through every single text message on my phone and have not messaged anybody. I haven’t even checked the Oha Asa horoscope while I have been here, for what good is knowing how my endeavours will turn out when I have no endeavours to turn my hand to? 

Yes, my life has been monotonous ever since I graduated and got married, but the monotony had purpose – the creation of the Japanese ideal, and the acquisition of money and property. I do not know if I have become depressed, neither do I have any great desire to find out, but it is certainly true that nothing holds joy for me anymore. My mind is an idling, decomposing vegetable in a warm, dark place, and as such, dark, destructive thoughts grow like poisonous mould around the edges. If this is what my life has come to, does life hold any meaning? And would it not be simpler to not be alive? 

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am not suicidal. 

I have no desire to kill myself. I have merely been entertaining thoughts of what it would be like to cease to exist. To have my name scratched from the Book of Life like wiping data from a hard drive. I am, at once, too strong, and too weak to take my own life, and neither is there cause to – there are millions in this world with far more cause to end it all that I. But who hasn’t thought that the world would be no different without them? 

It is twenty minutes past six in the evening that I am entertaining these dark thoughts, and through the fog of my mind comes the realisation that I should probably change into a clean set of pyjamas. I check my phone, more out of habit than anything else, and find no new notifications. My last text message is dated five days ago, from Katashi, of all people: 

Morning, Midorima-san. Have loaded your belongings into your car, please feel free to collect whenever you like. As requested, I will stay out of your way, but please knock if you want coffee or a cigarette. I hope you are well. With respect, K 

Bizarrely, I do rather like Fujiko’s new man. He is incredibly polite, and the few times I have met him, he has navigated the gut-churning awkwardness of our situation with surprising grace and courtesy. On top of this, he clearly adores my son, and enjoys play far more than Fujiko or I ever did. If he does end up becoming Hiro’s stepfather, I know that my boy will be loved and cared for. 

That stings. 

It is an unusual emotion, to be sure – I am glad for my son, perhaps more than I should be. But after years of growing up with two increasingly estranged parents that, on their best days, could quite frankly give a fuck, the boy might finally have a chance to be loved the way he needs to be. This perspective brings to mind the many ways in which Fujiko cheating on me is my fault. She has never said this to me – she wouldn’t dare – but I have certainly been lacking as a husband and as a father. Perhaps my current situation is God’s way of ensuring that my long-neglected son is taken care of. If my life has to fall apart for my son’s life to be made better, I can understand the easy choice that God had to make. 

I put my phone down, and begin to change. And it is as I am pulling on a new pair of pyjama bottoms that, for the first time in five days, I hear the painfully familiar sound of a basketball bouncing outside my window. 

As I pull a fresh t-shirt over my head, I can still hear it, and it makes me wonder why the familiarity is so painful. Maybe it’s because even now, over a decade since the day I last played basketball competitively, I can still picture the corresponding play for every single bounce of the ball? I can hear the subtle difference in tone every time the ball-handler transfers the ball to their off-hand. I can denote the changes in rhythm that accompany every single drive, and the sharp double-beat of a step back. This is followed by the long gap in the rhythm that I know, if I listen hard enough, will be followed either with the clatter of the ball hitting the rim, or the eternally satisfying swoosh of a perfectly made basket. I can hear every pass, every post-up play, every scuffle and steal, and I see it in my mind’s eye, laid out in front of me. The scuffing of sneakers on the concrete – there are six players on the court outside my hotel room. I know this game so well I could even guess what kind of sneakers they are wearing. 

But why is this familiarity so painful? 

The footfalls and rhythm of the ball show me a three-on-three half-court game, most likely between junior-high age players – the timings of the dribbling give me an idea as to the height, build, and skill level of the players. I can hear from the bounce of the ball that one of these players is tall for his age, and from the scrape of his shoes I can hear him setting screens and rebounding. 

I can hear the occasional shouted play called, and a high-level of passing fluency for junior high players. And this is what I can’t quite place – the rhythm of the passing stirs up a bittersweet, half-remembered feeling in my cold, dulled spirit that I cannot, for the life of me, put my finger on. I’ve heard this basketball before. Somehow, deep in my past, I know that I have played this basketball before. 

Why is this familiarity so painful? 

I take a box of cigarettes from the bedside table (three left, before I start the next box), and carefully select one, before grabbing my phone and making my way towards the half-open glass sliding door that will take me out onto the balcony. I listen for a moment more before walking through. 

There’s a simple table-and-chairs setup on the balcony, with a close-to-overflowing ash tray that I have certainly put through a lot these last six days. I sit down, and light my cigarette, before turning my attention to the game taking place on the court below. 

As I already knew, there are six players, and five of these appear to be in Junior High. They are dressed in casual sports training gear, and I can see a few school-issued sports bags on the touchline (from this distance, I can’t make out what school then belong to, but the colour scheme is silvery-blue). The tall player that I heard earlier has close-cropped, pale green hair and a stud in one of his ears – with a slight raise of my eyebrows I notice he’s wearing a Los Angeles Clippers jersey, with Atsushi Murasakibara’s number 19 emblazoned on the front and back. Out of the six on the court, I can tell that this boy is a special player. Nowhere near the same league as the man whose jersey he wears, but he sets hard screens with a smile on his face, and communicates incredibly well in the pick-and-roll. He favours his left hand over his right, and his footwork in the post is impressive for a junior-high player. 

He would have played well with Takao, I find myself thinking before I can stop myself. 

The sixth player is not in school, that much is certain. He looks to be in his middle age, and is wearing a polo-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He isn’t tall, but he’s built reasonably well, and his movements on defence bear the efficiency that only comes with having played the game for years. 

He is familiar, and I can’t quite place why. 

His hair is short and pale blue, combed over and held in place with gel. A pencil-thin moustache is visible above his upper lip, and he’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses that he occasionally pushes up his face with a forefinger. I know this man. Somehow, I know him. 

His team switches their defensive rotation, and puts him up against the tall, green-haired boy, and before I know it, the eerily familiar man has stolen the ball, passing it to one of his teammates. The ball is quickly passed back towards him, and suddenly I know who he is. 

The ball touches his hand for only a second, and it is immediately redirected into the path of a driving teammate for an easy layup. 

The man smiles, enthusiastically congratulating the scorer, and then he looks up towards the balcony. Towards me. 

In a way, I always knew. I knew from the moment I heard the game. I knew from the rhythm of the passes, the fluidity of the teamwork, the flow of the game. 

His face lights up in a familiar grin, and he waves at me. 

The painful familiarity makes perfect sense to me now, and I cannot believe I didn’t realise sooner. The glasses and the moustache are a surprise, but I should have realised from the second I heard that first pass. So familiar, and so ingrained in my very soul that even now I can feel my heart start to beat a little bit faster for the first time in longer than I can remember. 

Even after all these years, how could I have not recognised the basketball which Kuroko plays?


	2. .and yet... i do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which midorima gets a job, meets a fan, and reminisces about his high school basketball career

It has been fifteen days since I left my life behind me, and to my credit, I have managed to get myself a job. Nothing particularly impressive, mind you. When I was with the law firm, myself and a few of the other employees would occasionally get drinks at a small Izakaya bar in Minato called ‘Uoshin Nogizaka’. The owner recognised me when I handed in my ludicrously overqualified resume, and I have my first shift on Sunday evening. When I was interviewed, the assistant manager asked me if, based on my employment history, this kind of job would feel demeaning. At the time, I didn’t particularly understand the question, but even now, I don’t think of it as demeaning in the slightest. The fact of the matter is, the life I built for myself is gone. I spent over fifteen years as one of the top property lawyers in Japan, and in two months I had lost my job, my wife, my family, and my home. The life I had built for myself is what allowed me to maintain all those things that should, by rights, have been important to me, and it seems insulting to the man I was to think that I could go back into law. With this in mind, there is nothing about the idea of pouring drinks for strangers that I find demeaning. I am not deluded enough to see the crashing and burning of my life as an opportunity for rebirth, but it is certainly a new beginning of sorts. I must scrabble about in the wreckage of the life I have lost, and painstakingly build a new, brick by boring brick. 

I am, for now, still spending my days at the hotel. I have a small amount of savings, and I certainly get a healthy enough discount on my room to justify remaining here over seeking to rent (I did, after all, help the owner of this particular chain keep the property through three different legal disputes). I found that once I had mustered up the willpower to start typing the next sentence of my resume, the rest flowed like water, and I was able to get out of the door just two days after I saw Kuroko playing basketball outside my room. I started applying for jobs. 

I don’t know for certain if seeing Kuroko that day somehow inspired me to get off my arse and take some sort of control over my life, but I can’t deny that my heart beat a little bit faster while watching him play. I don’t recall ever particularly missing basketball in the years since I quit, but I imagine that when you sink as many hours into something as I did, it’s natural to retain some form of love for the thing you cared most about, even when you cease to care about it anymore. It seems stupid to only realise this now, but I spent so long telling myself that I didn’t miss the slap of the ball on the hardwood, that I willed myself to forget that every morning for almost a decade, I would wake up, shower, and meticulously tape every finger on my left hand so that my shooting form would be consistent. I had repressed the memories of staying hours after practice every day to endlessly shoot three-pointers until the janitor came to cut the lights off. And Takao... six days out of the week, Takao would be with me. The irritating but constant voice in my ear during classes, and my constant training companion. Even now, I remember the subtle, comforting sting of the ball slapping my hand with every pass I caught from him – hundreds of thousands of passes – either in training, during pick-up games, or in official matches – all invariably leading to a score. 

I realise now that I neglected to allow myself to miss him. 

In truth, I have neglected to allow myself to miss anything. And yet... I do. 

\--- 

I am ready for work. Uoshin Nogizaka does not require employees to wear any uniform beyond a black top, and as it is forecast to be a cold night, I have gone with a black turtleneck that I used to wear on dates with Fujiko. I have thoroughly showered, my mobile phone is fully charged, I have a store-bought bento and a bottle of water on my bedside table, ready to go in my bicycle paniers. My glasses are freshly cleaned, and I have even filed and buffed my nails. 

I am not intimidated by the prospect of such a menial job, but even so, it is nice to feel as prepared as possible. I do not need to leave for at least another half an hour, and my evening feels like it has purpose. And yet, something is amiss, and I cannot place what. Somehow, despite my preparations, my studying of the Izakaya’s menu, and my memorisation of my cycle route, I have not done everything humanely possible to prepare for my first shift. And it is with an exasperated chuckle that I realise what it is, reaching for my phone with a resigned sigh. 

If I am to venture from the protective bubble of the hotel, I suppose I could do worse than to know how the evening’s endeavours will turn out. 

The Oha Aso Horoscope app has updated itself since I last opened it, and I am not a fan of the new layout. Nonetheless, I check my fortune. I am ranked third today, which is more than acceptable for a first day of work, and today’s lucky item is a fountain pen. Fortunately, I brought my Parker pen with me to the hotel, so it’s easy to take this with me. Anything larger, and I probably wouldn’t have bothered. 

“Cancer: Today is a day for thinking fondly of old friends, and for courageously seeking out new experiences. Follow your first thought, and allow good things to happen to you.” 

Generic, yes, but undeniably positive. On a whim, I move the app to the first visible page on my phone, and check the time. I still have twenty-five minutes before I have to leave for work. 

Before I leave, I tape my fingers. I may as well do everything humanly possible, after all. 

\--- 

My first shift is entirely unremarkable, but nothing to complain about. The other staff members on shift are young and perfectly pleasant, even if my supervisor does look somewhat awkward at the prospect of managing somebody a decade older than him. His name is Benjiro, and once he’s got over having to teach a respected ex-lawyer how to pour a pint, he reveals himself to be a friendly, observant young man with a knack for charming even the most disgruntled customer. He’s dressed slightly more casually than the rest of the staff – his jeans have a fashionable rip at the knee, and while his T-shirt is smart, the Jordan logo on the hem is definitely not what I’d expect from a professional. 

He and I work the bar, while the rest of the team wait tables, and once the initial rush of men ordering pints is over, he starts to take me through the cocktail menu. 

“You’re picking this up really quickly, Midorima-senpai. Thank you for working so hard.” 

I’m surprised by the honorific, as he hasn’t spoken to any of the other staff so formally – a fact I assumed to be because most people his age have largely stopped using honorifics in the workplace. 

“I have always been a fast learner, Benjiro-senpai, especially with a teacher as enthusiastic as you.” 

I am not sure if I imagine his blush, but he chuckles. I grab a cloth and begin wiping the bar down, now that there are no customers queuing. 

“Why do you call me senpai? It’s only my first day.” 

Benjiro laughs, and it’s a pleasant sound. He does, unlike the rest of the staff, seem genuinely happy to work here. 

“Forgive me, I’m not usually one for that kind of formality, but... well, you’re older, and I guess I just remembered where I recognise you from.” 

“Oh? Where is that?” 

He smiles at me, our conversation is momentarily paused by the beeping of the glass-washer, which he begins to unload, carefully drying and polishing each glass. 

“I... You used to play basketball, right? For Shutoku High? My dad used to take me to the high-school games when I was a kid, and... well, I was a little bit obsessed.” 

I am not offended, but I didn’t expect to feel this old in my mid-thirties. 

“That was long time ago, but you are correct.” 

He seems to have lost his earlier awkwardness, and begins to chat excitedly to me as we clean and organise the bar. 

“I went to so many games I lost count, but I used to go home and recreate the plays with magnets on a whiteboard, and I’d always think I was making stuff up when I’d end up with your magnet at half-court at the end of the play.” 

It’s a little uncomfortable hearing him talk so excitedly about my high-school basketball team, but I can tell he means well, so I humour him. 

“That is an impressive memory, especially for a kid. Did you have a favourite team?” 

Benjiro shrugs with a grin. 

“Not really... My eldest cousin was a bench-player for Seiho, so I’d always cheer for them, but I probably enjoyed the Kaijo matches the most.” 

I chuckle at the memories of hard-fought matches and even-harder fought arguments with their infuriatingly flashy ace. 

“They were a good team... A truly bizarre group of kids, but they worked hard.” 

“Kasamatsu-senpai used to wave at me from the court – I guess I watched them so many times he started to recognise me. Did you know him?” 

“Not well. But I played against him a few times, and he was impressive... A good leader, and...” 

My next thought surprises me, as even in school I was never one for this kind of conversation. I guess Benjiro’s unabashed enthusiasm is beginning to rub off on me. 

“He was probably one of the top five point-guards I ever played against.” 

Benjiro’s grin tells me that I may have opened up a metaphorical can-of-worms, but he looks happy to say the least. 

“Really? Is it really lame if I ask you your top five?” 

“It was so long ago that I would struggle to put one together... But I rate Takao from my own team as the best point guard of that High-School period.” 

“Not Rakuzan’s Akashi?” 

I chuckle darkly. 

“He would certainly be the obvious choice. Akashi was certainly the perfect point guard, and maybe even the best high-school point guard to ever play... but I would still choose Takao. I’d imagine that you created more than a few top five lists back in the day. Care to share?” 

He doesn’t even pause to take a breath. 

“Akashi Seijuro of Rakuzan, Yukio Kasamatsu of Kaijo, Izuki Shun of Serin, Ryuhei Kasuga of Seiho, and Fukui Kensuke of Yosen... In that order.” 

Takao never was the flashiest or most attention-grabbing point guard, but his omission surprises me. I guess, like many great point guards, one has to play with them, rather than against them, to recognise their greatness. I nod my appreciation of Benjiro’s list, and continue cleaning. 

“Midorima-senpai... do you still play basketball?” 

I shake my head, not looking at him. 

“I have not played basketball in... well, over a decade, I’m afraid. Career ambition and the nuclear family left me with very little time. I have a regular gym that I attend, to keep in shape, but... Basketball is no longer a part of my life.” 

Benjiro smiles sadly at me. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. I was never particularly good, but I just love it so much. My girlfriend plays shooting guard for an amateur girls' team, and we’ll often shoot around before my shifts at one of the local courts. If you wanted, you’d be very welcome to play with us.” 

The offer is a kind one. I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t thought about picking up a basketball again, but the urge never lasts particularly long. I guess I thought that drawing a line under that part of my life was for the best, but if I’m honest, I was probably just scared to try again. When I played, I held myself to a higher standard than almost any other player I’ve met, maintaining my level of skill through meticulous care, endless hours of practice, always doing everything humanly possible to ensure that I never missed a shot. Over a decade has passed, and my fear is that,were I to get on the court again, the shock of how far I have fallen would be too much for me to bear. To take a shot after so long, and so have it miss... my pride would never have allowed it. To have worked so hard, and then to start once again from the very beginning... the thought is repulsive to me. 

“No pressure or anything, but... Well, forgive me, but it seems to me that you’re at a little bit of a crossroads in your life, Midorima-senpai, and... well, I find happiness in doing something that I love, and if you love basketball as much as you did... I struggle to believe that ever goes away.” 

He’s persistent, I will give him that. His love for the game is clear and infectious... and I could do worse than to strike up a good rapport with a senior employee on my first day. 

“I... I will certainly give it some thought, Benjiro. And please, if you must use honorifics... Midorima-san will do just fine.” 

\--- 

According to Benjiro, Sundays at Uoshin Nogizaka are often this peaceful, characterised by a healthy number of regulars, but not very many people out on the town (the other local Izakaya offer a two-for-one deal on Sunday nights that attracts most of the nightlife). Benjiro points these regulars out to me as and when they order, introducing me with a smile and walking me through how they like their drinks. One such regular, a friendly and obviously well-educated older man named Sanji, pegs me as a smoker and asks if he can cadge a cigarette, prompting my first break of the night (Benjiro sends me outside with him, on the basis that building a good relationship with the customers is key to the job). As we smoke, Sanji talks excitedly to me about ancient Chinese history, of all things, and reveals himself to be a retired professor of the subject. While we smoke, he introduces me to his friends, who always join him on a Sunday night, and they all welcome me and offer to buy me drinks, which I decline. Sanji, not to be dissuaded, speaks to Benjiro as we go back inside, and makes him promise to pour me a glass of something after the shift. This job is far below anything I thought I would enjoy doing, but I get the feeling that I may even enjoy it here. 

Benjiro talks to me predominantly about basketball, with the passion of somebody overjoyed to find a common interest with somebody. I discover that he is a lifelong Alvark Tokyo fan, and has attended every game that he can since Kagami Taiga signed with the team upon his return to Japan. When he discovers that I haven’t followed basketball in a long time, he explains to me that after three seasons with the Chicago Bulls (including two conference finals appearances), an ACL injury had resulted in Kagami being released from his contract, and he has returned to Japan to recover. As soon as he was fit, Alvark Tokyo snapped him up on a max-contract, and since then, the team has enjoyed a great deal of success, as well as prompting a new and exciting level of competition within Japanese basketball. Benjiro is particularly excited for a big game at the end of next week which pits Alvark Tokyo against their frequent finals rival SeaHorses Mikawa, and their very familiar ace, Aomine Daiki. 

Surprisingly, it brings a smile to my face to hear that all these boys that I played with, and against, in my youth have reached such a high level playing the game they love, and hearing about Aomine’s work ethic and leadership qualities is really quite heart-warming. Being labelled as the Generation of Miracles at such a young age could so easily have destroyed us, and while I did choose to walk away from the game, something happened in those three years of high school that lit a fire under all of our feet. And if I’m honest, I can, without much imagination whatsoever, credit this fire to the emergence of the Serin High basketball team – and the shadow and light that was Kuroko Testuya and Kagami Taiga. 

In all aspects of life, there are some relationships that are thrown into your path that fundamentally change you. Nowhere was this more evident than with Aomine and Murasakibara. I remember the last year of our time together at Teiko, and how some days it would only be myself and Akashi from the first team who would show up to practice. And yet after losing to Serin, both Aomine and Murasakibara began to practice religiously, and the results were staggering. Kagami’s gift for aggravating players into intense rivalry brought out some truly incredible games from both Touou and Yosen in every tournament since that fateful Winter Cup. Both Aomine and Murasakibara were given the captaincy of their respective teams in their third year, and at the end of it all, Murasakibara got drafted into the NBA along with Kagami, and Aomine had ensured in his very first season in the Japanese B. League that his team would appear in every single Playoff finals of his career so far. 

It is with no small pang of regret that I think that, had things been different, I could have followed a similar path. I was certainly good enough. There has never been a shooter like me in the history of Japanese basketball, and had life worked out differently, there is no reason why I couldn’t be playing at the same level. 

No reason at all, except for the simply fact that, sometime during my University career, I lost my love for the game entirely. I told myself then that whatever happened, I would never allow myself to regret my decision. 

And yet, even after all these years, and even though I know that there is no way back... 

I do.


	3. .before i knew it... years.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which kuroko enters the scene, midorima remembers, and an emotionally honest conversation is had

It is halfway through my fourth shift at Uoshin Nogizaka, as I’m pouring Sanji his third Sake of the evening, that Kuroko walks into the bar. I don’t notice him at first – at this point, all I am aware of is two men walking through the front door and making their way to one of the tables in the corner. It’s only once Sanji has thanked me, in what I am discovering is his usual longwinded way, that I notice that one of the men to enter was the Phantom Sixth Man. He is sat with a handsome older gentleman who is familiar enough to me that I am sure that I know him, but not familiar enough that I can think of his name. I am unsure if Kuroko has noticed me on the bar, but he quickly meets my eyes and smiles. Even across a bar, Kuroko’s talent for observation clearly hasn’t gone anywhere. I raise my hand in greeting, and we leave it there for now. Benjiro notices me waving and looks over towards the table with a smile. 

“Ah, he’s back again. Do you know him?” 

“I used to. He was a teammate at Teiko, and then a rival of sorts during high-school.” 

Benjiro nods his understanding. 

“I see. Well, he’s been in here a few times in the last month or so, always with some basketball coach. I think he’s recruiting.” 

What on earth could Kuroko possibly be recruiting for? 

“Recruiting?” 

Benjiro nods, seemingly thrilled to know something that I do not. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s a teacher at some middle school, and every time I’ve seen him, he’s been buying drinks for somebody involved in coaching. Look...” 

He gestures to the table. 

“That’s Katsunori Harasawa, the former Touou coach. He just retired last year after coaching the Hiroshima Dragonflies for five seasons.” 

I recognise him now, although his hair is a lot shorter and greyer than what I remember. 

“I’ve seen that guy at the courts a couple of times, always playing with students, so my thinking is he’s probably involved in student basketball.” 

That makes an awful lot of sense and goes some way to explaining why he had been playing basketball with a group of junior-high kids. 

“What does he drink?” I ask Benjiro, and he laughs. 

“Draught beer if it’s a Friday evening, but every other time he asks for a vanilla milkshake with a shot of Baileys in it.” 

Of course Kuroko would be the one to order a milkshake in an Izakaya. He may have that ridiculous moustache now, but clearly some things never change. 

“Do we even sell milkshakes?” 

“No, but we’ve got milk and a blender, and the first time he asked I went out and bought a tub of vanilla ice cream.” 

“Is it normal to let customers make up their own drinks?” 

Benjiro chuckles, looking at me with a confusing smile. 

“Where do you think all our cocktails come from? If we’ve got the ingredients, we just make the drink and charge them what we like – in this case, six-hundred Yen. I’ll get you to handle that table if you like?” 

I very deliberately shrug, feigning indifference. 

“I do not particularly care either way, but I am happy to do it.” 

If I am honest with myself, I have thought about Kuroko a lot since I saw him playing basketball that day. Nothing specific, as such, but in quiet moments, memories of playing basketball with him at Teiko, and of playing against him and Kagami, will come to the surface, and once the strangeness of the memories wore off, I have become content to let myself remember. I never particularly got on with him, which was neither of our faults – blood-type incompatibility is common, and if fate has decided we weren’t to be friends, then who am I to argue. With that said... we were close. Never friendly, but close. I like to think that we respected each other a great deal. We found ourselves on a team of prodigies, and continued to work hard every single day that we played with them, long after the others abandoned the discipline of practice. Words were few and far between, but I remember a couple of conversations in which, were our blood-types compatible, I could imagine us being friends. 

As I said, we were never friends. But we shared a couple of secrets in quiet voices when it was just the two of us in practice (Akashi was always there, but rarely involved – at this point, he had become more of a manager and captain than a player). And, despite our differences, his basketball was truly beautiful. As incompatible as we were, Kuroko taught me, and indeed each of us on that team, how to trust in another player. We competed all the time, and played entirely for our own strength, and yet I knew that if Kuroko was on the court, all I had to worry about was finding whichever spot I felt comfortable shooting from, and the ball would come. Akashi’s passes were perfect for a point-guard, absolutely, but Kuroko... Kuroko did not even need to see you to know where you were, and exactly what position you wanted the ball to line up against your palm. If you didn’t know him, he would have made it look so natural. But every single day I saw how hard he worked to hone his skills. The way he would stare whenever he could, drinking in and memorising our everyday movements, observing our rhythm, even outside of practice. I had always found the staring unnerving, but after long enough, it just became a part of who he was. He knew the role that Akashi had for him in the team, and he knew that if he wanted to continue playing with the first string, he had to perform every part of his role perfectly. It was life or death for him. The basketball Kuroko played required him to be perfectly in tune with every one of us, and despite our difference, I have always respected his dedication to ensuring that he could continue to serve and support his team. 

I wonder how much he has changed. 

\--- 

“Midorima-kun... It’s good to see you.” 

For God’s sake, I turn away from the bar for one second to put some glasses away and suddenly he’s there, making me jump, just like when we were kids. I manage to not cry out in surprise, and turn around to see Kuroko standing on the other side of the bar, wallet in hand. 

“Kuroko.” 

Seeing him standing so close to me, after so many years, I am unsure what to say. What do you say to an old teammate whose texts I successfully ignored throughout the entirety of my marriage? In the end, I decide, Kuroko is a customer. 

I bow my head slightly. 

“Welcome to Uoshin Nogizaka, what can I do for you?” 

He smiles, ever so slightly, and immediately the first thing I can think of his how young he looks, even after all this time. He has the glasses, hair and moustache of a man ten years older, and a few faint lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth, but his skin is still pale and youthful, and his smile is exactly the same as I remember. 

“Ah, yes, I was buying drinks. Please could I have a pint of Asahi Super Dry, and a vanilla shake with a shot of Baileys for myself.” 

“Of course.” 

I ring him up on the till, and he pays cash. Once I am successfully occupied with making the drinks, he speaks. 

“You were the last person I expected to see, Midorima-kun. How long have you been working here?” 

Small talk. I guess it’s better than an awkward silence, at any rate. 

“This is my fourth shift. I also did not expect to see you here... do you come often?” 

Kuroko chuckles, looking down at the bar with a grin. 

“Really? Do you come here often? Your pickup lines need some work, Midorima-kun.” 

I glare at him, and then smile as I realise that the ice is broken. 

“For goodness sake... It is a perfectly reasonable question considering I do, in fact, work here.” 

He nods and leans gently against the bar with one arm. 

“It’s quieter here than the other local, and I prefer to be able to hear when I am in company. I only usually come on the odd occasion, but I’ve had a lot of informal meetings recently. This place is pretty good for that.” 

I nod my understanding as I pour milk into our blender jug, bending down to open the mini-freezer. 

“What kind of meetings? Anything interesting?” 

Kuroko shrugs. 

“Believe it or not, I’m the Deputy Headmaster at Teiko, and the basketball team has been without an official coach for the last year. I’ve been filling in, but it’s time the kids had a proper, dedicated coach. Sadly, I’m not having much success.” 

I make a vague affirmative sound as I begin to scoop what I imagine is a decent amount of vanilla ice cream into the blender. 

“That is surprising. Teiko is a prestigious coaching position, I would have thought interest would be high.” 

Kuroko shakes his head sadly. 

“You would think so... The truth is, Teiko hasn’t been considered a strong basketball school for almost a decade, and we have struggled to keep coaches even when we do hire them. The players don’t know how to win games, and struggle to find the drive to improve when we continually fail to qualify for even regional tournaments.” 

I snap the lid onto the blender. 

“I see. The shadow of a hundred victories can be a heavy burden when you yourself have not experienced them.” 

Kuroko sighs heavily, and I can see that he’s been working hard to try and rectify this. 

“That’s exactly the problem, Midorima-kun. It’s not that we have bad players, it is simply a total lack of a winning attitude. We have become comfortable with mediocrity, and try as I might, I haven’t been able to change that. Victory at all costs isn’t exactly a philosophy that I find easy to set an example for, especially when we never see victory.” 

“I wish you the best of luck, Kuroko.” 

I start the blender, and the conversation is put on hold by the loud whir of machinery. As the milkshake shakes, I grab a branded glass and, with the efficiency of muscle memory that I have already expertly formed, I pour yet another perfect pint. As the beer pours, I am aware of Kuroko staring intently at me, his eyes moving very little behind those bizarre wire-rimmed glasses. It’s unnerving, him being so close after all this time. Watching my every movement down to the breath coming in and out of my lungs. Like he’s getting to know me all over again. 

It is as I bring the beer to its perfectly foamy head that I realise how much I have missed him. But of course, I could never tell him that. 

Instead, I gently put the pint down on the bar and shut off the blender. 

“You pour an excellent pint, Midorima-kun.” 

Before I can apply any sort of filter to my thoughts, uncharacteristically jovial sarcasm forces its way out of my mouth. 

“Well, I do everything I possibly can, and I always carry my lucky item. That is why my pints are always perfect.” 

He laughs, his entire face lighting up at the joke, and I find a smile crawling unbidden across my face – it's infectious. 

“I’ve missed you, Midorima-kun.” 

And suddenly the atmosphere is sober and melancholy. I really have no idea what to say to that. 

When he speaks again, his voice is low and quiet, and he waits until I have turned away to pour his milkshake. 

“Midorima-kun... what happened to you?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“I... I’m not sure what I mean. Maybe the drink will help, but... It was hard, waking up one day and not being your friend anymore. And I worried about you, when you stopped replying to my texts. I assumed you were just busy being a newlywed, but then before I knew it, years had gone by.” 

I stir his milkshake, and turn around a little quicker than I intended, placing it in front of him. 

“I was not aware that we were friends. Enjoy your drinks, Kuroko.” 

He looks down at the bar again, and doesn’t take them. My words came out harsher than intended, but I mean them. Our blood types were never compatible enough for us to be considered friends. 

“If you’re not okay... you can call me. I wouldn’t mind that.” 

The bittersweet awkward turn that the conversation has taken is thankfully saved by the arrival of another customer, and Kuroko smiles his thanks at me before making his way back to his table. For the briefest of moments, I watch him leave. 

\--- 

I find myself looking over to Kuroko’s table more than I should as the shift goes on. He talks animatedly to Coach Harasawa, with none of the awkwardness that I became familiar with back at Teiko, but in less than an hour, the Coach has made his excuses and left. Clearly, another failure in his many attempts to find our old middle-school team a basketball coach. And to my surprise, he remains at the table, just sitting and staring into his glass. I wonder for the briefest of seconds if I have hurt his feelings. Not that I care – he should have known better than to throw such depressing questions my way when we’ve only just met after all these years. He caught me off guard, that’s what it is. And besides, we were not friends, that is just a fact. I guess I never stopped to consider whether or not he thought of me as such, but really, I shouldn’t need to. Right now, he certainly looks down, but it is most likely linked to his job, and his meeting – not my admittedly rather cold reaction to what, in hindsight, was just a genuinely concerned question. 

Damn it all, I just know that I am going to end up apologising to him, which is very out of character for me, but... 

\--- 

Teiko Middle School Practice Gym 

“Tetsu-kun!” 

This is not the first time that Momoi has invaded our after-hours practice to throw herself at Kuroko, and I am certain that it will not be the last. Usually, Kuroko is able to see her coming, but we’re in the middle of a complex pass-and-shoot drill that Coach Sanada drew up for us earlier today, and he doesn’t notice until she’s crashed into him, almost knocking him backwards. With a scowl, I catch his frankly terrible pass (not that I can blame him) and drain the three-pointer. 

“Must you do this every time?” I ask, to nobody in particular, but as usual, Momoi’s attention is focussed purely on Kuroko. 

I never expect her to be in her uniform when she intrudes on these practice sessions, but it is certainly telling that her after-school attire manages to be even more revealing than her usual skirt (on the subject of which, it is positively criminal that school-uniform companies can get away with selling skirts that are little more than plaid belts to girls under the age of sixteen). She’s wearing shorts that look like they could be painted on, and a strappy vest top that is clearly losing an ongoing battle with her chest. I have never been attracted to Momoi, but even I find myself watching the rise and fall of her chest with more interest than I should. 

Sue me. I may pride myself on my calculated and logical personality, but I have a pulse in my balls the same as the next man. 

Kuroko, on the other hand, has never seemed to particularly notice. Now that I think about it, that is probably one of the reasons why her wardrobe is the way that it is. He’s always such a gentleman to her, but for somebody so obsessed with observing everybody around him, surely, he must realise that Momoi is absolutely smitten with him. We may not understand why, but it obvious to anybody with eyes that Teiko’s manager has a great many romantic plans for the Phantom Sixth Man. Not that seems to have any feelings about this one way or the other. 

“Tetsu-kun, I really need your help!” 

Kuroko manages to extricate himself from her arms, not even sparing a glance for her attire. 

“What’s wrong, Momoi-san?” 

“I need to finish my scouting reports for Akashi-kun before tomorrow and Tetsu-kun is really good at observation!” 

“Sorry Momoi-san, I am busy tonight. Midorima-kun and I are practising.” 

Momoi, as expected, doesn’t take this particularly well, and launches a more concerted offensive. 

“But Tetsu-kun, you’re always practicing, and I really need help. And besides, my parents are away, and I’d be so grateful!” 

And there it is. Even Kuroko must be able to see through Momoi’s transparent attempts, but, as usual, he seems entirely nonplussed. 

“If you need help, why don’t you ask Kise-kun? He’s very good at observing people, and he told me that he isn’t busy tonight.” 

“But I want you, Tetsu-kun!” 

Kuroko smiled apologetically at her, and bends down to pick up a basketball. 

“I’m sorry, Momoi-san, but I am busy tonight. I hope you manage to get your work done.” 

And just like that, it’s over. Kuroko passes me the ball, and after shaking my head in disbelief at the Phantom Sixth Man’s total obliviousness to Momoi’s barely concealed request for a make-out session, I dribble the ball to my starting position. 

“Go!” Kuroko shouts, and begins to run to the cone we set out. I pass out to him, and sprint around the outside of the three-point area, really pushing myself to travel as fast as I can, imagining that my mark is following me closely. The ball meet’s Kuroko’s hand as he reaches the elbow, and immediately he swings his arm around and redirects it towards the corner. I reach the corner just in time for the ball to slap perfectly into my hand, and, obviously, my shot is true. This is not so much a shooting drill as a passing drill – Coach Sanada knows by now that threes, particular the shorter-distance corner threes, are easier than layups to me. What I am working on is speed and fluidity. Akashi and Coach are planning to utilise Murasakibara’s command of the inside on offense for the next few games, and both Kise and I have been instructed to become comfortable with perimeter sprints, in order to collapse defences and run them into screens (not that Aomine is at all happy about setting screens). With Teiko’s level of talent, this kind of tactic is likely unnecessary, but it gives us something to work towards, and some vague illusion of progression and challenge. 

Momoi watches us for a minute or two, and then resigns herself to a lonely night. Kuroko is so focussed on our drill that he doesn’t seem to notice her leave. We practice like this for a few minutes, and then I catch one of his passes and do not shoot. 

“Kuroko, I must say: that was one of the most pathetic things I have ever seen.” 

He looks confused and a little hurt. 

“Was the pass bad? It felt like normal.” 

“Not the pass, fool; your passes are perfect. I am talking about your conversation with Momoi. I hope you realise that I could not care less if you left practice to make out with her.” 

Now he really looks confused, but this time, it looks deliberate. 

“Why would I make out with her? She wanted help with scouting our next opponent.” 

I roll my eyes, exasperated with his seemingly purposeful obtuseness. 

“If Momoi wanted genuinely needed help with assembling scouting reports, she would have asked Kise or myself, and she would have done so while wearing appropriate clothing. Furthermore, she very deliberately told you that her parents were not home, and that she would be grateful. The only way she could have been any clearer is if she had tied a sign around her neck that read ‘DTF’. I refuse to believe that you haven’t noticed this.” 

Kuroko looks down at the ground with a resigned smile on his face. 

“So... you noticed it too?” 

“Of course I did, fool.” 

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he picks up a basketball and begins tossing it from one hand to the other. I give a resigned shrug and hold my hands up to receive the ball. Before I know it, it’s in my hand, and I make the shot without even thinking. Kuroko rebounds it, and then it’s back in my hand. There’s no complex, goal-focussed drills here – this is little more than fidgeting while we work out what to say. The basketball equivalent of twiddling our thumbs. 

I do not know how much time passes before I decide to speak. 

“Why do you not respond to Momoi’s advances, Kuroko?” 

I make a shot, and he rebounds it, seemingly glad of the distraction. 

“I am not sure how to, Midorima-kun.” 

He makes another perfect, almost unconscious pass to me, and I sink it without a second thought. 

“Momoi-san is one of my best friends, and I like her very much. But... she makes me uncomfortable when she acts like this. I... I just don’t think I see her that way.” 

We are not looking at each other, absorbed in basketball, and I think to myself that this is probably the reason why we are able to have this conversation. We are not friends, but we will always be teammates. That is enough. 

“Do you not find her attractive?” 

He doesn’t respond immediately, appearing to put genuine consideration into his response. 

“I know that she is... but I guess I don’t really feel it. I enjoy talking to her, and when we hang out outside of school it’s fun, but I don’t feel anything when I imagine kissing her. It’s... uncomfortable is the only word I can think of, Midorima-kun.” 

“Do you think that this is because Momoi is not your type?” 

“I don’t understand... my type?” 

For such an observant person, Kuroko really does present as totally oblivious sometimes. 

I receive another pass from him, and this time I dribble to the other side of the three-point area before pulling up off the dribble and shooting. The shot is true, but it clips the rim on the way in. Perhaps my pull-up jumper could use some more practice – I shall have to speak with Akashi. 

“How do I explain this?” 

Kuroko rebounds, and passes. I shoot again. The routine is really rather comforting. 

“Aomine is very vocal about his preference for girls with large breasts. Murasakibara likes girls who are tall, but not taller than him. I am primarily attracted to intelligence. And Kise once told me that his type of girl is one who will not ‘tie him down’, whatever that means.” 

Kuroko nods his understanding, letting the rebound bounce of its own accord into his hand. 

“And that is a type?” 

“As I understand it, yes. What type of girl do you like, Kuroko?” 

I then realise that this sounds too much like genuine interest for my taste. 

“Not that I care, obviously. But perhaps understanding what type of girl you like will help you better understand how to handle Momoi’s advances.” 

Kuroko shakily dribbles the ball as his thinks, and once again I am amazed by the fact that such an incredible playmaker can be so incompetent when it comes to fundamentals like dribbling and shooting. 

“I know this isn’t helpful, but I really don’t think I have a ‘type of girl’ that I like...” 

I truly believe that there is no problem in the world that cannot be solved by the application of logic. It is time to test this belief. 

“Would you like to find out?” 

\--- 

“Benjiro-san?” 

He looks over at me from his perch on the end of the bar, grinning when he realises that I’ve caught him staring at the TV in the corner. 

“What’s up, Midorima-san?” 

“Would it be alright if I took a break?” 

He laughs at the request. 

“You never need to ask to go for a cigarette, go right ahead.” 

I shake my head. 

“I was planning on talking to Kuroko. I... I have not seen him in many years.” 

Benjiro nods his understanding and casts an eye around the sparsely populated bar. 

“Tell you what, Midorima-san, take the rest of the evening off.” 

That was unexpected, and not at all what I was hoping for. 

“That won’t be necessary, Benjiro-san; we’re still open. And besides, I could do with the hours.” 

He shrugs, apparently undeterred. 

“I’ll clock you out at the end of my shift, then. But look around – it's a Thursday night, there’s nobody here, and we’ve still got Mako working tables. You’ve worked incredibly hard this week, and you’ve come in early twice. Get yourself a drink, so at least there’s some money going through the till, and go catch up with your friend.” 

I can’t work out what to say to this, and he grins amicably. 

“That’s an order from your supervisor, Midorima-san. And if you feel like clearing your own table so that you’re technically still on the clock, go right ahead.” 

Benjiro truly is a strange young man, but he treats me with incredible kindness. 

“Thank you, Benjiro-san.” 

“Think nothing of it...” 

He pauses thoughtfully for a moment. 

“Midorima-san... It isn’t my place to pry, and I would never wish to intrude on your personal life. But I get the feeling that you’re going through a bit of a hard time at the moment. I really hope that working here helps, but I think that talking to an old friend is always a good idea.” 

For such a happy-go-lucky, enthusiastic person, he can be incredibly astute. In this way, he reminds me ever-so-slightly of Takao. 

“I appreciate that, Benjiro-san. Truly.” 

“Good.” 

He seems incredibly pleased with himself, and I can’t help but smile. 

“Now, what’re you drinking?” 

\---  
Teiko Middle School Practice Gym

“Are there any idols or models that you like?” 

“No.” 

“Any actresses?” 

“None that I can think of.” 

“You must have had crushes before. What did your last crush look like?” 

“Hmm... They were taller than me. Really outgoing and passionate, funny and friendly, and a bit of an idiot. Dark hair... dark skin, too – darker than usual, anyway?” 

“Dark as in ‘black’, or dark as in ‘Aomine’.” 

“Dark as in Aomine. I don’t think I know any black people, do you?” 

“I can’t say I do... Japan is not exactly huge on multiculturalism. Okay, so do you like any other girls with those characteristics.” 

“I don’t know any girls with those characteristics.” 

“I suppose your crush is rather unique, then. What is her name? ?oes she go to this school?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay, why don’t you ask her out?” 

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” 

“What is so complicated about it? Does she already have a boyfriend?” 

“No...” 

“Is she older?” 

“Only a little older than me.” 

“So, what is the problem, Kuroko?” 

“Aren’t we trying to discover what type of girl I like?” 

“Of course, but all that becomes irrelevant if there’s somebody specific that you already like!” 

“I don’t think that this is working, Midorima-kun.” 

“Only because you are being deliberately vague with your answers!” 

“I haven’t been vague.” 

“Yes you have! I have asked you a comprehensive series of questions designed to accurately determine a general type of woman that you like, and all you’ve done is say no, and at one point basically described Aomine! I don’t see how... Oh.” 

“...” 

“You...” 

“...” 

“Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however imp...” 

“Shut up, Midorima-kun, and please don’t needlessly quote Conan Doyle at me.” 

“Okay... You like Aomine?” 

“I... Yes. Please don’t tell anyone.” 

\--- 

With a small glass of Whiskey (Irish, always) in my hand, I make my way over to Kuroko’s table. He looks up from his milkshake as I sit down opposite, and smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Midorima-kun.” 

Once again, I have no idea what to say. It seems pathetic to apologise for hurting his feelings, and asking about his meeting seems pointless when I can see the results in his unusually downcast face. In the absence of words, I opt for a sip of Whiskey, and hold it on my tongue for a long time as I think. And then, with the comforting warmth of holy water spreading through my chest, I decide to opt for honesty. 

“You asked me what happened.” 

Kuroko nods, not meeting my eyes. 

“Yes.” 

I take another drink, mirroring his nod absent-mindedly. 

“I am not fond of talking about myself like that...” 

“I know, I shouldn’t have asked, I just...” 

I hold up my hand to stop him, and take a deep breath. 

“I... I’m not okay, Kuroko.” 

He smiles sadly, slurping some of his milkshake through a straw. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

\--- 

Whiskey and company make for good bedfellows, and serve to make the thought of honesty easier to bear. With this in mind... 

“As you know, I attended the University of Tokyo to study law. Takao... Takao came with me. I still don’t know if this was coincidence, but I suspect my attendance factored into his decision. We joined the basketball team, obviously. And...” 

I take another sip of my drink. 

“The easiest way to say this is that I hit a wall. I have never struggled with my studies, but for some reason, I found it increasingly difficult to complete assignments to my usual standards. My mind... My memory began to become unreliable, and I would experience mental blocks with alarming frequency. And the basketball... I found that I couldn’t keep up. Between studying and the intense practices, I began to fail tests, and I began to miss shots. It became too much, but the thought of changing my plans or routine never crossed my mind. Why would it? I was so unaccustomed to failure that adjusting what I was doing was never an option, but... We started to lose games, and I started to become unhappy.” 

Kuroko is an exceptional listener. His eyes never leave my face, except when he drinks his milkshake, and he doesn’t speak or ask questions. After so many years of observing me, he knows that for me to talk so openly is unheard of, and he seems content to simply let me get whatever it is on my chest, off. 

“It... I lived like this for almost a year, and then a friend of my father’s, the owner of the law firm, got in touch, and game me a conditional offer of a high-paying graduate position in the firm, provided I achieved a certain level of excellence in my studies. I started to think, very seriously, about quitting basketball, but obviously Takao encouraged me to keep at it, even offering to help me study after practice. I thought... I thought that I could make it work.” 

Kuroko nods, eyes fixed on mine, urging me to keep going, and I find myself having to swallow an unexpected lump in my throat. 

“What happened?” he asks, and I find the lump in my throat gets in the way of my words. 

“I... You know what happened, Kuroko. You... you called me afterwards, and you said...” 

He shakes his head. 

“This isn’t about what I said, Midorima-kun. What happened?” 

I blink slowly. I take a drink of my Whiskey. And then, in a choked, low voice that is barely a whisper: 

“Takao died...” 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaand Kuroko's here! For proper this time!  
> Hope you enjoyed that chapter - had a lot of fun writing the Teiko flashback. I genuinely love Momoi a lot more than this chapter suggested, but seeing as the official anime had no issue with using her as little more than a fan-service plot device, that is the role she plays in this flashback. I promise, we have not seen the last of her, and her character will be given the proper care that she deserves. In this house, we stan Momoi.
> 
> Also... sorry about that gut-punch of a last line. Midorima is such an emotionally stunted creature that I was never going to reveal this except in a one-liner. I love Takao, but even when I was planning this story three years ago I couldn't find a role for him in the narrative, and I figured grief is something that will be interesting to explore with such a cold creature as Midorima.
> 
> Hope you liked, all


	4. .to swallow the sky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which midorima remembers, wakes up with a hangover, and kuroko is either determined or an arse

...The young man in my memory has never seen a corpse before, neither was he expecting to. 

He left home with a vibrant, loud-spirited and long-suffering friend, who turned up five minutes late and argued with him about who would pedal the cart today. The young man in my memory, consumed with their collective bad fortune in today’s Oha Asa, tried and failed to argue his friend into carrying Scorpio’s lucky item for the day (ironically, a bicycle helmet – God is clearly having a fucking laugh today), and ended up throwing it at the living room wall in a fit of rage. Already running late for their university team’s practice game, the two young men bickered and sniped at each other. The young man in my memory stubbornly parked himself in the back of the cart, arms folded in defiance, and his long-suffering friend began to pedal, muttering irately to himself as he pulled out into the street. 

The young man in my memory has never seen a corpse before. 

As such, he is entirely unsure how to react now that he finds himself next to one. 

Panic hits before emotion, as it so often does. The heart-stopping panic of noise, of momentum, and of flying out of the cart head over heels. In the back of his mind, he is loosely aware that the car had collided with the bicycle first and had clipped the front of the cart – as such, it is centrifugal force that has thrown him from the cart. The panic turns to pain when he notices that his left hand now hangs perpendicular to the forearm to which it is attached. He can see blood and the protrusion of bone, and all comprehension beyond that is drowned by his screams. 

And as he screams, he notices that he has been thrown just eight feet from a corpse. One that bears an unnatural resemblance to the friend he had been arguing with just moments before. The young man in my memory has never seen a corpse before but is able to identify it as such without much thought – while the enormous pile of blood pooling around the head and neck goes a long way, it is the eyes that confirm it. Open, empty, wide enough to swallow the sky. He is in too much pain to process who this corpse may once have been, but finds that he feels no need to scream anymore. The pain becomes ice, the panic becomes shock... 

It is only long after the street has been cordoned off, the paramedics have been and gone, and the young man from my memory looks up at the descending relief of a mechanical ventilator that his best friend finally becomes a corpse... 

\--- 

“Fujiko picked me up from the hospital.” 

I take a drink of my whiskey and find that I have finished it. Kuroko, only halfway through his milkshake, raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. 

“I assume you knew Fujiko before the accident?” 

I nod, brows furrowed and eyes not leaving my empty glass. 

“Yes... I am still not entirely sure what she was to me – she was the friend of Takao’s girlfriend’s best friend, and practically lived in the library where I studied. A truly strange woman, even then. She used to sneak into my lectures from time to time, just because she was interested in some of the cases. We weren’t especially close, but her number was saved above my mother in my phone, and when I texted my mother to ask her to pick me up from hospital, I was so drugged up on painkillers that I texted her instead. She turned up in her shitty little pickup truck, and... well, I suppose that was the start of our relationship.” 

Kuroko takes a comically loud slurp on his milkshake. 

“I see... Midorima-kun, when did you quit the basketball team?” 

“I never officially quit... but I never went back. The accident... well, I would probably have ended up quitting the team regardless, but the accident changed everything. I broke both bones in my wrist, open-displaced fractures, and... well, I still have metal in there, and by the time I regained the use of my left hand, there was no point in returning just to spend every practice relearning how to shoot. Not without Takao there...” 

Kuroko nods his understanding, although the sadness in his eyes is clear. 

“When did you pick up basketball again?” 

I shake my head, standing up and taking my glass. 

“I never did. I need another drink; do you want another milkshake?” 

Kuroko ponders for a moment, and then shakes his head. 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Irish whiskey.” 

He chuckles. 

“That actually does sound very much like you. The luck of the Irish?” 

I nod, smiling despite the heavy memories in my head. 

“The luck of the Irish. Are you having one, or have you got work tomorrow?” 

He smiles. 

“I’d like to try a whiskey. It’s an inset day tomorrow, and I have a day off because what’s the point in being a deputy head if you can’t get out of mandatory training occasionally?” 

I nod and walk back up to the bar. Benjiro greets me with a grin. 

“Two Teeling Small Batch?” he asks. 

“No ice, drop of water.” 

“Coming right up. How’s it going?” 

I think for a moment, glancing back towards Kuroko. 

“I... Well, I think. It is good to talk.” 

“Good man.” 

\--- 

“It’s ironic... if Takao had not died, I do not believe I would have married Fujiko.” 

Kuroko makes a face as he takes the tiniest sip of his whiskey. 

“Why not?” 

I shrug, and drink. 

“Fujiko and I got on well enough as acquaintances, but looking back, I believe a great deal of what attracted me to her came from her reaction to grief... She was... She still is, to be fair to her, one of the best listeners I have ever met, but also one of the least sympathetic people I have ever known, and... that was what I needed. She would always listen but would never care. And once I had calmed down, she would give me a squeeze on my shoulder and tell me to get on with it. ‘The world didn’t die with him’, she used to say, and then we’d go and smoke and talk about whatever she wanted to talk about. She... She’s an orphan, herself, and she always told me that grief was one of the most self-indulgent emotions. So instead of thinking about Takao, I’d think about her, and... We started dating, and we planned a life together, because she liked to have a plan, and I desperately needed that kind of direction. I finished my degree, we got married, and I began working at the firm. I was promoted comparatively early in my career, won a great many complex property cases, and made an awful lot of money.” 

Kuroko nods, still listening intently. 

“Do you miss him?” 

“Who, Takao? I... I never particularly gave myself the chance to think about him. Grief was an indulgence, and by the time he started preying on my mind again, too many years had passed... it seemed insulting to dwell on it after all that time.” 

“But do you miss him?” 

I lower my eyes. 

“I... Yes, I miss him. Of course I do. Especially now. Kuroko, I am alone all the time, if I’m not here, and I keep checking my phone to see if he has sent me any irritating messages and then I realise that I will never see his name flash up on my phone again.” 

Kuroko’s eyes are filled with sympathy, and just a little confusion. 

“Why are you alone? What about your wife? Your son?” 

I let silence hang between us, allowing him his obliviousness for a little while longer. I take a deep breath. I take an even deeper draught of my whiskey, polishing off half the glass. The burn warms my whole body. 

“I... I left them.” 

I watch his eyes widen in shock, and quickly explain myself. 

“Not like that, I didn’t just go out for a pack of cigarettes and not come back. No... Fujiko cheated on me. Is cheating on me. I do not blame her, but the fact remains that she has broken our legal contract by fucking another man for the last year and a half, and he is still very much involved in her life. Her’s and my son’s. It... At the same time that I discovered this, I was fired without references from the firm, and I have seen the life I lived reduced to absolutely nothing. I have left her the house... and two of the cars, and all the furniture, and... and my son. She may be legally at fault for the impending divorce, but it is a fact I am a terrible husband and father, and Hiro is far better off living with her. And that... that is why I am here, working in this bar, living in a hotel, and utterly, indescribably miserable almost every waking moment of the day. I...” 

I take a deep breath and reach into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes. 

“I’m not okay, Kuroko. I am a homeless, joyless, lonely bartender, and I’m not okay.” 

Kuroko is silent, eyes never leaving my face. He steeples his fingers under his chin and things, and I find my craving for a cigarette only grows stronger. I am about to stand, when he speaks. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He means it, and much more besides – the sorrow he feels for the way that my life turned out is clear in the tremble of his voice, and I think for a fleeting second that as much as I never thought of Kuroko as a friend, it is entirely plausible that he always thought of me as such. And even if that proves false, I know for a fact that he has always been kind. 

We both let the silence engulf us for a moment, and then Kuroko stands up. 

“You want a cigarette.” 

It isn’t a question, and I pull a straight from the packet with a slight smile. 

“You always were observant, Kuroko.” 

He grabs a very fine (and far-too-large) coat from the back of his chair – a grey D'Urban Single Breasted Short Coat from their 2016 collection, if my memory serves me – and envelopes himself in it. If it only fit, it would suit him very well. 

“I like to think I can notice almost everything about you, Midorima-kun. I’m not sure that years change that.” 

I put on my coat and we walk out into the crisp, fresh air. I look back, and notice Benjiro smiling fondly after us. 

\--- 

I wake to the vibrating of my phone, and the pauses between each buzz are too long to be an alarm. In all honesty, I’m a little surprised to be waking up in the hotel, as I don’t remember returning here after last night. After Kuroko went home, Benjiro decided to clean the beer lines, which, he insists, requires three pints of each draught beer to be pulled through. His excuse was that he needed to make sure the lines were cleaned before his day off, as he didn’t trust his manager to do it. And so, for want of a better word, we got drunk, and for the life of me I cannot remember a single thing that we talked about. I have a vague recollection of Benjiro smoking a joint out of the double doors, and of us both scrabbling about on our hands and knees after I knocked two glasses of beer all over the floor, but the rest has clearly been deemed ‘unnecessary data’ by my brain. 

Ah yes, the phone. 

With a somewhat melodramatic groan of exertion, I stretch and throw my hand at the bedside table until it finds metal and glass, and look at the screen. Futile. I really cannot see anything without my glasses. Rather than put even more effort into finding my glasses, I bring the phone to me ear and take the call. 

“Who is it?” 

“Good morning, Midorima-kun. Did you sleep well?” 

It’s Kuroko, and he sounds entirely too happy for this time of morning... whatever time of morning this is. 

“Kuroko...” 

Shit, my voice sounds like sandpaper. 

“I think I slept a little too well... what time is it?” 

“Half past nine in the morning. I’m sorry, did I wake you up?” 

Damn it. 

“I think you know the answer to that, but if you did not wake me up, I doubt anything would have. Did you need something?” 

I fancy that I can hear his smile down the phone. 

“I did. Play basketball with me.” 

“What?” 

He chuckles, and I can imagine him sat in a comfortable chair, grinning up to his eyes. 

“I really enjoyed seeing you last night, and I’ve woken up excited and unable to sit still. Come and play basketball with me.” 

I had forgotten that for such a kind and unassuming person, Kuroko can be incredibly direct when he wants something. 

“I told you, I haven’t picked up a basketball since...” 

“Since the accident, I know, and frankly that’s a crime, Midorima-kun. Come and play basketball with me.” 

I sigh in exasperation. 

“No thank you. Besides, I am otherwise engaged today.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

He’s correct, but I am hardly going to give him that satisfaction. 

“How would you know?” 

A chuckle from the end of the phone, and then a pause. 

“Because your curtains are closed, Midorima-kun.” 

I shoot bolt upright in bed. 

“What the fuck, Kuroko?” 

“I’ve just parked outside the court, and you’re clearly still in bed. I’ve brought you a bento, so get a shower, come eat breakfast, and play basketball with me.” 

Before I even know what I am doing, I’m out of bed, juggling my phone from hand to hand as I begin to pull my clothes off (of course I fell asleep in my clothes). 

“Did it not occur to you that I do not want to play basketball?” 

He scoffs, for want of a better word. 

“Of course it did. But I knew that if I didn’t nag you, you would probably stay in bed with a hangover all morning, and then forget we exchanged numbers and spend your days off alone in a hotel room, alone and miserable, forever. So instead, come and play basketball with me.” 

I put the phone on speaker as I wrestle with my boxers, looking around frantically for a towel. My brain is still adamant that I’m going to stay in bed, but clearly my body has other ideas. 

“You really are an arse sometimes, Kuroko.” 

“Yes. And you’re just as much of a tsundere as ever. So... are you coming?” 

I frown intensely, and glance up at the clock on the wall. 

“Absolutely not, I...” 

I trail off, and let out a frustrated groan. 

“Fucking hell, fine! Give me twenty minutes.” 

“Good... By the way, I checked Oha Asa for you. You’re ranked third, and your lucky item is a red necktie. I’ve got one in the car.” 

I hang up so that I don’t have to say thank you, but I can’t help a small smile. 

Arse. 

\--- 

Kuroko is already shooting free throws when I arrive at the court (strong takeaway coffee from the hotel bar in hand), and to my amazement he’s making almost all of them, with a decidedly standard shooting form – bend at the knees, extend to full height, and a high release point. And even his handling of the ball as he collects the rebounds and dribbles back to the free throw line appears comfortable. Sure, he’s decidedly average, but even average seemed unattainable for Kuroko during the days we played together. He grins at me as I walk over, and points to the bench at the courtside. 

“Your bento is there for you, Midorima-kun. Thank you for meeting me.” 

I take a sip of my coffee, displeasure clear on my face. 

“You did not give me much choice, parking outside my hotel like a stalker.” 

He smiles, not at all apologetically, and shrugs. 

“I wanted to see you, and I know you well enough to know that it takes a not considerable effort on my part to make that happen.” 

He takes a shot that spins around the rim before dropping through the hoop, and I chuckle slightly. 

“You have improved, Kuroko.” 

He sighs heavily, and nods. 

“It only took me the best part of two decades, and all. Once my misdirection began to lose its effectiveness, I had to become average in order to still enjoy my basketball.” 

I remember when this started – our third year of High School, after Izuki Shun had graduated, Kuroko had moved to the second-rotation point-guard for Serin, and had, for want of a better word, rather sucked. 

“It is good that you didn’t stop practising.” 

He nods and takes another shot. 

“I love basketball. I can’t imagine not playing, even if I’m no good to a team.” 

I sit down, and peel open the top of the bento. 

“Do you still play with a team, Kuroko?” 

He shakes his head, putting the ball down and coming to sit next to me. He pulls a bottle of Gatorade out of his bag and takes a long drink. I begin to eat, and the food is not unpleasant. 

“Not outside of the Teiko practises, and even then, I’m mainly coaching. No, the last time I played in any kind of team was last year, and that was just a little ‘pub-league’ thing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Kuroko smiles, and runs a hand through his hair, fixing a couple of strands that had broken free of his gelled combover. 

“Last year, Benjiro-san from the bar put together a team of regulars for a mini-tournament with some of the other bars in Tokyo. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to do it again this year, especially now you’re working there.” 

Of course it had something to do with Benjiro. 

“It certainly would not surprise me; he’s already invited me to play with him twice.” 

Kuroko laughs, and takes another drink. 

“He clearly doesn’t know you well enough yet.” 

I roll my eyes. 

“I think it is more that he has a good-enough understanding of social boundaries to park outside of my hotel and nag me until I say yes.” 

“It hardly took me long...” 

We trail off as I eat, until the bento is finished, and Kuroko has had enough to drink. And then, after so many years, it is time to play basketball. Kuroko dribbles up to the baseline and offers me a smile. 

“Take it easy, and let’s see if we can’t get your shot back.” 

I suppose if we must start somewhere, it would be best to start in the corner – I refuse to sully myself my shooting layups, and if I have retained any kind of muscle memory since the accident, it will be the three-point shot. 

I look from the hoop to Kuroko, who looks unbelievably happy, and it is, I hate to admit, infectious. His pass hits my hands perfectly, the slap of the rubber feeling immediately like home. I bend my knees and raise my hands. And for the briefest, fleeting moment, the basket looks wide enough to swallow the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot out of me to write, and so many bits were discarded, re-written, and edited within an inch of their life. Getting Midorima to have an emotionally honest conversation is honestly like trying to get Murasakibara to share candy. I am, however, beyond happy with the result. Thank you so much to those of you who have taken the time to read this story.
> 
> If all goes to plan, the next chapter will be a fair bit more eventful than those leading up to it, and should feature an appearance from at least one of the Generation of Miracles. Please do drop me a comment if you like the story, as these give me life, and I will ALWAYS reply. 
> 
> Keep living, 
> 
> melodramaticglassescharacter


	5. .do you own a suit?.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which midorima is very not-good at basketball, kuroko is an arse, and akashi maybe has a plan

The sky above is as clear as I’ve seen it in Tokyo, and I can hear birdsong. Other sounds make up the rich tapestry of the morning – cars on the road, the bounce of the basketball, the sound of two kids playing a one-on-one the other side of the court. Kuroko and I have been playing basketball together for almost three hours now. I have taken exactly nine-hundred-and-seventy three-point shots. I have made exactly eighty-one of them. It is all I can do to not throw the ball as hard as I can at Kuroko in my frustration, but my desire to at least make one-hundred shots is stronger than my desire to never touch a basketball again. We spend most of the time playing half-court one-on-one, which, humiliatingly, Kuroko utterly dominates. Yes, perhaps if I lowered myself to scoring inside the arc, things may be different, but the fact remains that at this present moment in time, the basketball feels more natural in my right hand than my left, and Kuroko has been playing consistently for the entire time I have known him. I can see the hard work he has consistently put in to improve his fundamentals, and while I am undoubtably faster than him in general (I have, after all, regularly attended a gym in the absence of regular basketball practice), his speed with the ball in his hands puts me to shame. When I attempt to create any kind of space from his defence by dribbling, my left hand invariably fumbles the ball any time I attempt any kind of crossover, and as Kuroko continues to beat me, I become painfully aware of just how much I lost in the accident. Yes, given enough time, I could probably play again. The issue is, it would likely be a matter of months at least before I can even perform basic ball-handling drills confidently. I would almost be better off learning to lead with my right hand. 

Whenever we need a respite from the one-on-one games, Kuroko switches to rebounding my shots, grinning and encouraging me on the rare occasion that one of my shots falls through the basket. It occurs to me that he is, perhaps, a little more emotional – or, at least, emotionally free – than he was when he was younger. He smiles wider and more easily, laughs louder... and, of course, there was that stunt this morning. It’s clear in his play too. This Kuroko Tetsuya is no longer a shadow. He has no light to hide behind, no Captain to obey, no team to support – this Kuroko is more confident, sure of himself, and somehow even more driven as a result. His play is average, but full of freedom and joy, and for a moment, I am reminded of Aomine’s grinning face as he flashed by defenders, back when we played together. Kuroko is no light., that much is certain. But he is free. 

I wonder what it would take for me to become free. 

\--- 

It takes me just over one-thousand shots, but I finally reach one-hundred made three-pointers and earn myself a cigarette break. Kuroko hands me a fresh bottle of Gatorade from his bag, and for a moment we sit in silence, as I fill my lungs with smoke. Even though I am not moving around nearly as much as Kuroko, the energy I am exerting on the defensive end has taken an awful lot out of me, and my breathing is far heavier than I would like it to be. Serves me right for smoking all these years. I have tried to circumvent the cardiovascular effect of cigarette smoke with my regular gym workouts, but these are evidently no substitute to regular basketball. 

Kuroko seems to be feeling the effects of demolishing me, at the very least; his hair has completely fallen out of his combover, and due to being so much shorter than it used to be, is sweat-spiked in every conceivable direction. He isn’t breathing as heavily as I am, though, even though he was moving around an awful lot more. The man has clearly kept himself in shape. It’s strange, but I find myself almost regretting not being there to see him change and grow. We were never friends, that much is certain. But Kuroko was an often unnoticeable yet always integral part of the furniture of my formative years, and the disconnect between the Kuroko I knew, and the Kuroko who woke me up this morning, is one that my insufferably logical brain is having a little trouble reconciling. 

I would have liked to have seen it. 

\--- 

“Midorima-kun?” 

Kuroko’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. 

“Kuroko?” 

He gestures towards the packet of cigarettes next to me on the bench. 

“Can I have one?” 

Beyond thinking that I have never heard a more awkward way of asking for a fag, I don’t have much of a reaction. I just nod and pass him my lighter. It’s only as I watch him light up, that the surprise hits me. 

“I didn’t know you smoked, Kuroko.” 

He stands up, exhaling a long cloud of smoke, and begins to absentmindedly wander around in front of the bench. 

“I don’t.” 

He smiles, and I find myself unconsciously smiling back. The adrenaline, most likely. Then reason sets in again. 

“So, is this your first one?” 

“My first what?” 

“Your first cigarette, fool.” 

“What cigarette?” 

Is he for real? No, he can’t be. But this doesn’t seem like a very Kuroko-esque joke. 

“The one in your hand.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“The cigarette in your hand. The one you just cadged from me.” 

He shrugs, as if he genuinely has no idea what I’m talking about.” 

“Are you quite alright, Midorima-kun?” 

“The... The cigarette that you are literally smoking in front of me, right now!” 

He lifts it to his eyes, examining it with what looks like feigned curiosity, and then laughs. 

“That doesn’t sound like me, Midorima-kun. I don’t smoke.” 

“But you are!” 

“I must respectfully disagree.” 

“You... Christ, forget it!” 

It’s the tiny little smug smile on his face that does it, and I roll my eyes in exasperation before turning my attention back to my own cigarette. 

Silence reigns for a moment. 

\--- 

“Midorima-kun... do you own a suit?” 

Did he somehow take a blow to the head while I wasn’t looking? 

“I... Yes, of course I own a suit, I’m a lawyer. Was a lawyer. What kind of a question is that?” 

He smiles and takes another drag on his very fucking real cigarette. 

“I wanted to ask you something. If I’m entirely honest, it’s part of the reason I asked you to come and meet me this morning.” 

I find myself becoming more and more confused by Kuroko Tetsuya with every second that passes. 

“Why do you want to know if I have a suit?” 

Kuroko follows the cloud of smoke from his lips with his eyes, watching its gradual ascent before it merges with the sky. 

“Do you want to watch the game with me tonight?” 

I swear, everything this man says is a total curveball today. 

“What game?” 

“The Tokyo-Mikawa game.” 

I sigh, closing my eyes and pushing my glasses a little further up my nose. 

“I don’t follow basketball, Kuroko. Why would I want to watch a game with you?” 

He chuckles slightly, looking down at the ground, as I continue. 

“Kagami-kun and Aomine-kun are playing. It might be last time they play against each other before the finals, and even then, they might not both make it.” 

If he thinks mentioning Aomine is going to make me any more likely to sit through two-and-a-half hours of televised sports, then he is sorely mistaken. 

“No thank you. I have no interest in being bored in front of a TV for that long. And besides, what the fuck does this have to do with my owning a suit?” 

Kuroko looks up at me with a downright mischievous grin. 

“You swear a lot more than you used to.” 

“Only because you are more annoying than you used to be.” 

“Fair comment.” 

He takes another long drag on the cigarette (that is still in his hand, and that he is still very definitely smoking), and smiles. 

“Midorima-kun, did you know that Alvark Tokyo came under new ownership last year?” 

“As I am sure you are aware, I neither knew that, nor cared. Is there a point to these ridiculous questions?” 

I don’t know if it’s the moustache, the glasses, or some unholy combination of the two, but Kuroko looks an awful lot smugger than I remember him looking in the past. 

“There’s always a point, Midorima-kun. The previous owner got into some trouble after two very incriminating tape leaks. One was a recording of a phone conversation where he made some racist remarks about Magic Johnson, and the other was CCTV footage of him sexually assaulting a female referee in an elevator. As you can imagine, this wasn’t great for his business, and the basketball team was bought up by another company...” 

“Kuroko, for the last time, I have no interest in the...” 

“Akashi’s company”, he interrupts with a grin, and as much as I hate it, he’s got my attention. 

Knowing full well that he’s successfully baited me, he continues. 

“Akashi-kun has a private box at the stadium, and he has specifically invited us as his guests.” 

I am so focussed on wrapping my head around the fact that Akashi is rich enough to buy one of the biggest basketball teams in Japan outright, that the real surprise doesn’t hit me until a few moments later. 

“Wait... Us?” 

“Yes. One of his drivers delivered the tickets to me this morning.” 

“One of his... This morning? Kuroko, we only just met again last night!” 

“I know.” 

He’s had more warning than I have, but it’s still baffling how calm Kuroko is at this utterly ridiculous turn of events. 

“How on earth could he possibly know that we were free? That we’d even seen each other?” 

He grins. 

“So, you are free, then?” 

“Shut up. I am fully aware that Akashi is a freak of nature, but I struggle to believe that he knew we’d met up last night... unless you told him.” 

Kuroko shakes his head. 

“We talk, sometimes, and I’ve watched games with him before, but I haven’t spoken to him since last week.” 

“So how on earth could he...” 

“He’s absolute”, Kuroko interrupts, and there is no trace of humour or sarcasm in his voice. 

The words hit me like a gut-punch. It has been so many years since I have seen Akashi, heard his voice, and yet I still feel the overwhelming weight of memory crash down upon me. 

Takao Kazunari is the greatest friend I have ever known. Aomine Daiki, the greatest basketball player. Kagami Taiga, as much as I hate to admit it, is the greatest rival. 

But no man has ever commanded my total and utter respect like Akashi Seijuro. Yes, I perhaps knew him better than most, and saw more of his flaws and failings than the others. But even now, even from Kuroko’s mouth, his words cut me to the core. Even when I had finally defeated him on the court, I felt like I had suffered a loss. That there was still one more move left in the game, even if the scoreboard said otherwise. 

And in this moment - despite my natural apathy, my hatred for being out of control, and my indominable pride - I know that in the end, I have no choice in the matter. 

With my resignation and surrender clear in the timbre of my voice, I ask, 

“Why the suit, Kuroko?” 

He gives me a look that seems to imply that the answer is obvious. 

“Akashi-kun is a successful and influential man. The last time I watched a game from his box, I was introduced to two oil-moguls, two supermodels, five actors, Dirk Nowitzki, and the Prime Minister of Japan.” 

He notes the shock in my eyes with a self-satisfied smile. 

“Akashi-kun is going to have a driver pick us up from my place at five o’clock. Wear the suit.” 

\--- 

“Akashi... Thanks for meeting me.” 

The man who was my Captain gives me an empty smile, and takes a sip of his sake. I have never been to this bar before – it is famously impossible to get a reservation here – but Akashi evidentially has his ways. 

“My pleasure, Shintaro. It has been far too long since I have heard from you. What can I do for you?” 

All of a sudden, the nerves hit me. I don’t know why I become anxious around Akashi, especially since I have known him for so long, but even now there is some small part of me that becomes embarrassed in his presence. Some deep-seated feeling of inadequacy that desires above all else to be well thought-of and validated by this man who I have always had the utmost respect for. Still, I asked him here for a reason, and the last thing Akashi needs is for me to waste his time. 

“Akashi, are you aware that I am getting married?” 

He nods, swilling the sake in his glass around in gentle circles. His face is inscrutable, and I have no idea how he feels about this significant event in my life. 

“I had heard. Sugimoto Fujiko, if I am not mistaken?” 

I’m not surprised that he knows. 

“Yes.” 

He smiles without teeth and casts a lazy eye around the bar. 

“Then I must offer you my congratulations. If you require wedding insurance, please do not hesitate to give my name to the Insurance department of the Akashi Cooperation. You will be guaranteed a favourable rate.” 

“Thank you, Akashi. The wedding will be a small affair, close friends only... But I did have a more personal request of you, if I may.” 

He ever-so-slightly raises one eyebrow. 

“Ask.” 

I take a sip of my drink, and clear my throat, pushing the nerves down to the very pit of my stomach. 

“I... This is hard for me, Akashi, but... Obviously, I am unable to ask Takao to be my best man.” 

“That would certainly be difficult, yes. You have my sympathies.” 

“Thank you, but I do not require sympathy. I would like to respectfully ask you if you would consider being my best man.” 

Akashi’s face betrays no emotion save for deep thought, and for a moment, he does not speak. 

“I see. Why ask me for this?” 

Why, indeed? I have not spoken regularly to Akashi since the last Inter-High tournament, and while I certainly spent the most time with him out of all my Teiko teammates, I never considered what we had to be a friendship. But... I suppose, if I am to get married, of all the men in my life, I desire his blessing and support the most. 

“I respect you, Akashi. I always have. I can think of nobody else that I would want to support me on such an important day. Please, consider it.” 

“I understand... Nonetheless, Shintaro, I must respectfully decline.” 

My face falls. I can’t help it. I knew that there was a chance that he would say no, but I hadn’t thought about what that would feel like. As it turns out, it feels like being crushed. 

“I... I see. Can I ask why?” 

Akashi takes another sip of sake and looks up at the ceiling for a moment. 

“It may be difficult to understand. Simply put, Shintaro, it is because I believe you are making a mistake.” 

What. The fuck. Entirely out of the blue, his candour knocks me for six. And what make him think he has the right to even say that? 

“What’s that supposed to mean, Akashi?” 

“It means what it means. This is a big decision for you, one that I know that you do not take lightly. I respect that. However, the fact remains that I do not see this as working out favourably for you. I do not believe that you have made the right decision. I do not believe that Fujiko is the right person, and I do not believe that you are getting married for the right reasons.” 

He must be able to see the hurt in my face, because he reaches across the table and puts his hand on top of mine. The contact is jarring, but I know better than to push him away. 

“Shintaro, only you control how your life will turn out. And I hope you know that whatever you decide, and whatever you turn your hand to, you need only ask for my support and I will provide it whatever way I can. But I also hope you understand that to stand next to you as your best man, at a wedding which I believe will harm you in the long run, would be dishonest of me, and I could never forgive myself for that. I... I am truly sorry for the hurt that I can see I am causing you, and I would not ever presume to ask for forgiveness. I will attend your wedding, if you will still have me, and you will be supported however you need... but not this. I would not lie to you, Shintaro. I know that one day, you will understand.” 

\--- 

(Author’s Note: A short one, I know, but this was the most fitting cut-off point for the chapter that I could find, and I did so want to get a chapter up on Christmas, as I am aware that I’ve taken my sweet time with writing, rewriting, and constantly second guessing this next chapter. If anybody has any explanation as to why writing becomes so much harder when you reach the plot that you actually really want to write, I’d love to hear it. 

I would like to take this opportunity to make known my desire for a beta. Stories turn out so much better when you have somebody to bounce ideas off of, and as this story begins to reach a point where it actually has a plot, I’d love somebody to read stuff through and let me know where I could do better. 

I am so, so excited for this story (it’s pretty-much consumed my life now), and I do hope that you enjoy it. 

Lastly, a very Merry Christmas to all of you. Be blessed, be well, and celebrate much. 

keep living 

melodramaticglassescharacter


	6. .how lost you have become.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which kuroko tells midorima some hard truths, much basketball-related chatter is had, and akashi appears

As we sit in opposite armchairs in Kuroko’s admittedly rather spacious front room, I wonder if the man owns any nice clothes that actually fit him. Admittedly, it was in fashion back in the nineties to wear clothes that were several sizes too big, but Kuroko’s attire falls so far outside of that style or era that it physically pains me. 

The suit is one of the finest I have seen in a long time, and I spent over a decade-and-a-half at the top of the legal profession. A genuine Ascot Chang, in pale grey; beautifully stitched, every detail perfect, and utterly, entirely too big for the man wearing it. I admit to being something of a snob when it comes to menswear, but why in God’s name would you pay four-hundred-thousand yen for a suit that doesn’t even fit properly? It is inconceivable that any tailor would let him walk out the door in that suit without it being tailored within an inch of its life, which leads me to believe that this disgustingly oversized work of art must be a hand-me-down. 

My own attire was an easy choice – all but one of my suits are currently in storage, due to the limited space in the hotel. However, every man needs at least one nice suit. And while this is by no means my most expensive or fancy piece of menswear (yes, I am a snob – sue me), this is a fucking exceptional suit. While not the most name-grabbing brand, I have always loved Jil Sander for their simple yet dramatic cuts and sleek, almost androgynous fit. This particular suit is a virgin-wool and mohair blend in a subtle yet sleek dark blue, tailored through four fittings and paired with a pale-blue Thomas Pink dress shirt. Kuroko’s red necktie fits with the colour-scheme remarkably well and means that I don’t have to worry about stuffing it into my jacket pocket to appease Oha Asa. 

Despite my utter disinterest in Japanese basketball, I must admit I am beginning to look forward to the game tonight. Putting my indecipherably complex feelings about seeing Akashi again to one side, we are going to watch two of the greatest competitors I have ever played against go head-to-head, and as Kuroko takes me through the recent history of the two competing teams, I have to say my interest is piqued. 

\--- 

“Kuroko... who do you think will win tonight?” 

He doesn’t answer for a little while, and then shrugs. 

“I’ve lived in Tokyo for most of my life, Midorima-kun, so I’ve always had a soft spot for Alvark.” 

“I suppose Kagami being there helps.” 

“He’s my best friend, even now, so there will forever be a part of me that cheers him on... But I’m not sure who will win tonight. When Kagami-kun first came back to Japan, the team had to adjust to his play style, and Alvark have always had exceptional players at the guard positions. Historically, they’ve focussed a lot on guard-focussed isolation plays and the pick-and-roll, but Kagami-kun doesn’t play especially well with that style... certainly not at first. But he plays well with the point guard, Kojima-kun, and since the injury he’s taking a lot more three-point shots and making more post-up plays than he did in the States.” 

“What about Aomine and the SeaHorses?” 

Kuroko smiles, and shakes his head. 

“It might be hard to believe, but Alvark, pound-for-pound, have better players. Their center spent his rookie and sophomore years with the San Antonio Spurs before moving to Tokyo, and their shooting guard plays with the Greek national team, which as you can imagine lends itself well to supporting a player like Kagami-kun. On top of this, Captain Kojima-kun is a perennial Japanese All-Star. But Aomine has been the franchise player for the SeaHorses since he was drafted, and got made Captain two years ago. The coaching staff and the Manager have done a great job building a team around him from the ground up. Their team-play is the best in the entire B. League. They get more assists-per-game than any other team in their conference, they’ve surrounded Aomine with great shooters who can space the floor, and this season they brought in Izuki-kun from the Nagoya Diamond Dolphins as a starting point guard.” 

“Izuki Shun? I didn’t know he had gone professional.” 

“Izuki-kun has done very well for himself in the B. League, and I think the SeaHorses are a very good fit for him. His passing and vision make a lot of good opportunities for Aomine-kun to score, and he won Defensive Player of the Year twice with the Diamond Dolphins. They have won the Championship twice in the last three years. Oh, and they have Reo Mibuchi at the shooting guard position.” 

That... is a horrifyingly talented team. I know that Kagami thrives on strong competition, but the idea of anybody playing against this team is enough to make me sweat. I am well-aware of my status as the best shooter ever to play in Japanese high-school basketball. However, I am not deluded enough to believe that, overall, I was the best shooting-guard in my class. That honour must go to Reo Mibuchi, for his versatility; his ability to make threes and mid-range shots from any angle, and against overwhelming defence; and for his overall level of skill and athleticism that rounded out the other aspects of his game. He was never the most popular player with those who just watched the game, but for those who played... Well, all I will say is that much like Kuroko’s overly passionate high-school Captain, Reo Mibuchi is a player that every other shooting-guard in the league watched and took notes on. For him to now be playing alongside Aomine and Izuki Shun... what an utterly terrifying team. What ridiculous balance between scoring, passing, and defence. What overwhelming talent in the individual match-ups. 

“I would imagine that Mikawa SeaHorses are the overwhelming favourites, then.” 

Kuroko shakes his head ever-so-slightly. 

“Mikawa are always the favourites to win the Championship overall, but when it comes to this specific matchup, it can go either way, and often with dramatic results. This is Kagami-kun we are talking about.” 

The phantom sixth man makes a good point. How else were Serin able to be the first team in a decade to beat Rakuzan to the Winter Cup? We’ve all seen it happen repeatedly, throughout high-school; any team that Kagami plays on could be thirty-points down entering the third quarter, against any opponent, and still have a strong chance of coming away with something. The man has a competitive drive unlike any I have seen in Japanese basketball, comparable only, in my mind, to Bird, Jordan, Kobe, and maybe Russell Westbrook. Aomine can dominate an entire game and put up 50 points without breaking a sweat, on any given night. But Kagami could play a terrible three-quarters, and then suddenly drop thirty points in the final ten minutes. I am looking forward to this. 

I am looking forward to this. 

Seeing Kuroko play basketball from my balcony that day broke the seal on the grave in which I buried my love for the game. I may not like this fact, but I cannot deny the steady beat in my chest that I have felt since this morning. My body may have betrayed me, and I may be less than a shadow of my former self, but something has clicked in my spirit that is almost eager to see Aomine and Kagami go at each other after all these years. It is entirely possible that I am only feeling thus as a way of distracting myself from the fact that Akashi will be there, but to watch driven, competitive basketball again, after all these years, where anything could happen? A brief smile comes to my face as I think about how less than a week ago, the day that I am having would have seemed impossible to me. And as much as I would never tell him this, I have a sneaking suspicion that Kuroko Tetsuya may have come back into my life at exactly the right time. 

Just in time to save me, maybe. 

\--- 

The vibrating of my phone interrupts my thoughts, and I shoot Kuroko an apologetic smile as I check the Caller ID. 

It is Fujiko. 

I mute the ringtone and put the phone back in my pocket. 

Kuroko raises an eyebrow questioningly at me. 

“It’s okay to take it, Midorima-kun.” 

I shake my head and take a deep breath. 

“It is only Fujiko, and she has no reason to need to contact me.” 

“Doesn’t she? She is the mother of your son, is she not?” 

He makes a good point, but it doesn’t change much. Even when we were married and living together, I had very little to do with Hiro, and was rarely, if ever, consulted on anything to do with his upbringing. It was a rigidly traditional version of the nuclear family that the Midorima family subscribed to, where I was responsible for ensuring that Fujiko had enough money to raise our son, that the bills were paid, the cars were full, and the bins were changed. Beyond that, Fujiko took on the role as parent. She had no natural affinity for the role, but it never occurred to us to let this have any impact on our lives. My interactions with our son were largely limited to dinner-table conversations, and the odd hour in the evening where I would work in my office, and Hiro would sit on my knee, staring at whatever legislation or spreadsheet I was poring over at the time. I am relatively certain that he learned much of literacy (and patterns of speaking) from reading these documents over my shoulder. And in those two sentences, I realise that I have just about summed up the entirety of my parenting. Fujiko does not need me in order to look after our son, and they are both, truthfully better off without me. 

Of course, there is no way I’m going to explain all this to Kuroko, so instead, I just nod. 

“As far as I am aware, she will receive sole custody in the divorce, and we have made it clear that we will not be communicating except through lawyers.” 

Despite my assurances, he doesn’t seem to want to let the subject drop. 

“If Fujiko knows this, doesn’t that make it more likely that she is calling about something important?” 

I roll my eyes, and I notice with curiosity a small pit of what feels an awful lot like anger resting at the bottom of my stomach. Anger at Fujiko for intruding on a moment where I was allowing myself to get excited about the sport I once loved. For intruding on a moment that I was spending with... Well, spending time with Kuroko, at least after this morning, is beginning to feel ever so slightly what spending time with a friend might feel like. 

“If Fujiko needs male assistance with anything, she should bloody well call Katashi, okay? I...” 

A deep, calming breath. 

“A clean break, Kuroko. That’s what I need, that’s the only way I have any chance of getting any kind of momentum.” 

Kuroko pauses in pensive thought, and then, in a voice that is soft and understanding, 

“Midorima-kun... Unfortunately, a clean break is not something that’s going to be possible for you.” 

“Why not?” 

His face seems to steel a little, and I can see conviction in his eyes. 

“You are not entitled to a clean break. From your cheating wife, maybe, but you are a father. Regardless of your opinion on what kind of father you were, you have a responsibility to make sure that your son knows what kind of father you are, and what kind of father you will be for the rest of his childhood. Marriages end, but children are forever... have you even spoken to Hiro since you walked out?” 

His words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I lower my eyes, unable to meet his. 

I have not spoken to my son in twenty days. I have barely thought about my son for twenty days. 

Kuroko reads my answer in my face and posture, and sighs. And then, all of a sudden, his face sets into the determination and single-mindedness that I recognise so well from his basketball career, when the chips were down and it was clutch time. 

“Midorima-kun... you need to see your son. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow... but if you don’t arrange some form of meeting with your son, I swear to God I will drag you to their house myself.” 

He means it. 

“I am not joking, Mirodima-kun. Enjoy today – God knows you’ve earned that. But tomorrow, you need to arrange a time in the week where you can sit down with your son and actually talk to him.” 

And despite my every thought and feeling screaming at me that this is none of Kuroko’s fucking business, I know, deep down, that he is right. He is exactly right. And I am just going to have to accept it. 

Respectfully, thankfully, I incline my head in his direction. 

“I will... Thank you, Kuroko.” 

He nods gruffly, and then goes silent for a moment. 

“Midorima-kun...” 

“What is it?” 

And he looks me dead in my eyes, and I can see that it is still clutch time. 

“I am your friend. Forget history. Forget that blood-type incompatibility nonsense, and forget whatever weird, deluded views you have on the matter. I’m your friend, no matter what.” 

And once again, I have absolutely zero response – every conversation with him is a series of curveballs that I just have to watch fly by. 

“And that means I’ve got your back, it means that I care, and it means that I care enough to call you out when you’re being a dick. Whether you like it or not, that’s how it is.” 

For a moment, I cannot speak. And then, barely audible, I manage a simple, 

“Yes.” 

\--- 

Akashi’s driver picks us up in possibly the quietest car I have ever not-heard coming down the road – a beautiful, cherry red, electric Lexus US 300e, with tinted windows and one of the smoothest turning circles I’ve ever seen. Kuroko and I both head for the back seats, and the journey to the arena is such a beautiful taste of mundane normality that it’s almost enough to take my mind off the last couple of weeks. Kuroko chatters away to me about nothing and everything: middle-school basketball coaching, the best vanilla milkshakes in Tokyo, the rattling noise in his shower that he just can’t fix for the life of him, the mechanics of Kagami’s three-point shooting and its comparison to my own, the architectural layout of Akashi’s private box at the Arena Tachikawa Tachihi... inane, meaningless babble, and it is indescribably comforting. After the emotionally charged declaration of friendship that he threw at me earlier, this car journey feels like that in action – Kuroko is here, he is with me, and it doesn’t seem to be a burden on him in the slightest. The man is quite content to ramble on and accept my nods, grunts, and the occasional question as conversation enough. As such, the car journey passes by relatively quickly, even with the Tokyo traffic, and without ever once checking the time, until I eventually see the looming figure of the Arena Tachikawa Tachihi through the window, as we pull into a spacious and near-to-overflowing car park. 

“Have you ever been here before, Midorima-kun?” 

I shake my head, still staring out of window. 

“Never this arena. I went to a Tokyo game with my uncle when I was younger, but they were still Toyota Alvark then.” 

Kuroko nods, as the driver began to slowly take us around the car park’s one-way system. 

“Was your uncle a fan?” 

I don’t smile, but were I a different man entirely, I might have. 

“More than a fan. Believe it or not, he used to play for the National team back in the day.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, Uncle Kohaku. Used to play the point, but he was only ever a bench player... He always said he never minded, though, because it meant he got to learn a lot from Shirogane-san.” 

“I never knew that... None of my relatives even like basketball, although my grandparents came to a couple of the Serin games back in the day... truth be told, I was never sure how much of this was to support me, and how much of it was because my grandma though Kagami-kun had nice legs.” 

It’s then that I realise that Kuroko makes me laugh. Not in this specific instance, but I have smiled and laughed more in the last twenty-four hours that I have in a long time before then, and the only noticeable difference is the presence (an ironic choice of words for one so devoid of it, I know) of this man. This quiet, kind, and weird as fuck man who has, out of nowhere, fallen into my circumstances and done his level best to make them that little bit better the only way I think he knows how – with his basketball. 

Did I know? As his eyes met mine from across the street that day, did I somehow sense that the simple act of him waving at me was him crashing into my orbit? Did I feel the tell-tale tugging of red string at my fingertips as I heard his basketball from my hotel room? The answer to these questions is, of course, no – such thinking is fanciful, illogical, and utterly absurd... and yet Kuroko himself is fanciful, illogical, and utterly absurd. 

He makes me laugh. I can’t believe he makes me laugh. 

It is a little too late that I realise that I’ve been staring at him, and he’s eyeing me up with an expression that is equal parts confused and concerned. I offer him a shrug by way of explanation. 

“Your grandma makes a valid point... Kagami does have nice legs.” 

He flashes me a shit-eating grin, and the awkwardness of the moment is defused. His smile is embarrassingly infectious. 

\--- 

Akashi’s driver pulls into what appears to be a private bay, and I’m surprised to see that most of the spaces are filled by cars identical to this one: cherry red electric Lexus's. 

“Akashi does not seem to go much for variety, does he?” 

Kuroko chuckles. 

“Well, he does own them.” 

“Obviously.” 

“No, you misunderstand... he owns Lexus.” 

I may not have kept any kind of eye on Akashi’s businesses over the years, but I am sure that that cannot be right. 

“Akashi cannot own Lexus, surely.” 

Kuroko nods enthusiastically. 

“He’s a majority shareholder in Toyota, so while he doesn’t own the company, he owns a great deal of the stock. Last time I was here he talked about how he’s putting money into the development of new electric luxury cars, and how they’re building him a custom limousine.” 

Apparently, Akashi has his fingers in even more pies than his father did. 

“Kuroko... just how rich is Akashi, anyway?” 

He shrugs, as the driver pulls into a parking space. 

“I couldn’t say, but as I understand it, he invests a lot of money into already successful businesses, and uses the money made from that to fund things that he’s interested in, like electric energy, or setting up Shogi tournaments. He outbid the NHK to become the main sponsor of their Shogi tournament, so it’s been renamed the SAK Cup.” 

Damn. That is impressive. How in the hell did Akashi become bigger than the god-damn NHK? 

The car is so quiet that I barely notice when she engine shuts off. With a grin, Kuroko thanks the driver and almost bounces out of the side door. I follow, and together we make our way into the Arena. 

\--- 

We are met at the main gate by a polite and unusually tall attendant, who after examining our tickets and drivers' licenses, escorts us up a flight of stairs and a long elevator ride until we reach what he explains is ‘ownership’s private floor’, directing us along a corridor and right until we find Akashi’s box. The interior of the Arena is well-furnished, the floors immaculate, and this corridor is lined with framed pictures of players, general managers, and previous and current ownership. We turn right at the end of the corridor, and sure enough, in front of us is a double door, with the words ‘Seijuro Akashi Kyokai’ emblazoned in gold above the doorframe. The doorway is flanked by two tall bodyguards, with expensive, professional-looking suits and urban, unprofessional haircuts; one blond and spiky, the other with brown hair braided into tight cornrows, which looks about as ridiculous on him as it did on Haizaki. Both men are holding clipboards, and each one has the tell-tale bulge of a handgun in a shoulder-holster under their jackets. Were I a betting man, I would put money on both having been involved with the Yakuza. Still, as intimidating as they are, they great us with smiles and a polite bow of the head. 

“Good afternoon, Kuroko-san; welcome back.” 

Kuroko nods, and hands his driver's licence over for inspection. I follow suit, and Kuroko chats to the bodyguards. 

“Did you enjoy the Levanga Hokkaido game, Onizuka-kun?” 

The blond bodyguard grins, and nods enthusiastically. 

“Oh, it was brilliant; Kagami is on fire, right? I reckon he’ll go for another triple-double tonight.” 

The other bodyguard laughs derisively, and I can tell that Kuroko has touched on an earlier argument. 

“Kagami’s good, but there’s no way he’s got enough in the tank for Mikawa. Aomine’s a shoo-in for MVP this year, and that frontcourt is unbelievable this season!” 

The bodyguard called Onizuka rolls his eyes. 

“While I’ll admit that Izuki adds a lot to the roster, Aomine’s been playing well all season and it’s the time of year where he’ll start to get tired. There isn’t a player in the league who can match Kagami for energy and hustle at the moment.” 

Kuroko chuckles, as Onizuka passes the drivers’ license back to him. 

“I still can’t decide who’s going to win tonight, but it could definitely go to overtime.” 

Both bodyguards nod their agreement, and there’s a brief moment of silence before Kuroko clears his throat. 

“Any paperwork for us tonight, boys?” 

Onizuka starts with surprise and laughs. 

“Shit, yeah. Business as usual; sign these NDAs for us, and then you can go right in.” 

The other bodyguard passes me a clipboard, and I quickly scan through one of the most detailed and binding non-disclosure agreements I’ve ever read. Somehow, I recognise the vocabulary and penmanship, but I can’t quite place the lawyer. Still, I’m very familiar with NDAs, and have no problem signing this one. It’s not like I have anybody to talk to about tonight anyway, other than Kuroko. I pass the clipboard back, and Onizuka grins at the both of us. 

“Right, I can tell neither of you are carrying, so feel free to go on through. Have fun, don’t start any fights, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

I nod my thanks, and Kuroko shakes their hands. 

“That doesn’t exactly cover much, Onizuka-kun.” 

“You’re god-damn right it doesn’t.” 

He pulls open the door, and Kuroko leads the way through. 

\--- 

The first thing I notice, besides the sheer size of the room, is the thick, acrid haze of cigar smoke, which is the first of what I am sure will be many surprises about today. I cannot be certain, but as we walk through the door, I fancy I can smell a faint hint of cannabis smoke as well. The private box is spacious and well lit, smoke curling against the high ceiling in a way that is rather beautiful. To our left as we enter is a beautifully polished, pinewood bar – well stocked, and managed by a very professional-looking woman wearing a black shirt and a red bowtie. I cast my eye over a very fine selection of wine, sake, and whiskey, but it is only when I look more closely that I realise that, at the far corner of the bar, is a sizable, alabaster brick of cocaine. I think I can be forgiven for stopping in the doorway, because despite my history in the legal profession, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a large quantity of high-grade coke in my life, let alone seen it being expertly cut into lines by the bartender – over the background noise of tasteful lounge music, I can hear the sharp, rhythmic clack of the gentleman’s razor in her hand. She must notice me staring, because she flashes me a knowing smile and raises her hand in greeting. Whether she realises that it’s the hand holding the razor-blade, I wouldn’t care to guess. 

The room is not what I would call ‘packed’, but it is certainly alive with life and company – stylish, well dressed men in suits are the majority, but I clock two women in tie-and-tails, and several beautiful women wearing incredibly fine dresses. Two of them wave to Kuroko as we move further into the room, and he nods back. As I look around, a well-built, attractive European in a Brioni suit almost collides with Kuroko, quickly making an apology and making a beeline for the bar, where the bartender passes him a pre-cut straw. I try not to be too obvious in my observations as he takes an enormous snout-full off the bar, before starting a convoluted drinks order. I look questioningly for Kuroko, only to find him utterly unfazed by the very illegal goings-on and making small-talk with an attractive young-woman who I vaguely recall being on the morning news in some capacity. 

On the other side of the room, opposite the bar, is a collection of stylish red-leather couches and chairs, set around low-lying tables laden with glasses of prosecco, and the odd bottle of expensive spirits. Sat at the table closest to me is a jaw-droppingly tall, eerily familiar elderly black gentleman wearing an expensive suit and a fedora, gesticulating wildly with a thick cigar as he talks enthusiastically, in a mixture of thickly-accented English and terrible Japanese, to a collection of professional looking men and stunningly gorgeous idols. It’s only as I note the ring through his lower lip and the bizarre number of piercings in his ears that it clicks. I quickly turn to find Kuroko and tug discreetly on his sleeve. 

“Kuroko...” 

He makes his apologies to the newsreader he’s talking to and turns to me with a smile. 

“What’s up?” 

I pointedly glance back at the table and lean in towards his ear. 

“Kuroko, is that... is that Dennis Rodman?” 

Kuroko follows my eyes, and chuckles, keeping his voice low. 

“Don’t stare, Midorima-kun; somebody might think you’ve never seen a gaijin before.” 

God, there is so much wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to start. 

“What are you... Right, first off, of all people, you do not have a leg to stand on when it comes to not staring...” 

He just grins at me, a twinkle in his eye, and this irritating response spurs me on. 

“Second, I’m pretty sure you can’t say gaijin anymore, and anyway, I’m not staring because he’s black, I’m staring because it’s Dennis Fucking Rodman, you fool.” 

He gives me a patronising pat on the arm, and chuckles to himself. 

“Well, I’m sure Akashi-kun will introduce you, if you like.” 

Well, today was already utterly ridiculous, it almost makes sense that Dennis Rodman is sitting two metres away from me. 

“Speaking of Akashi, where is he?” 

Kuroko gestures towards far end of the room – a line of spacious couches in front of what I strongly suspect is an enormous two-way mirror looking out over the basketball court. The couches are occupied by a number of expensive suits with good looking bodies inside of them, one of whom I recognise immediately as Kise Ryota. Predictably, he sits at the centre of a large couch surrounded by attractive young men and women hanging on his every word, and the spliff between his fingers confirms that my sense of smell is as well-developed as ever. He’s had a very severe haircut since I last saw him, although I would imagine that drastic changes are par for the course when you play as many different roles as he has in his admittedly still-rather-young acting career. The man had always been unfairly good looking, and the years have unsurprisingly been a lot kinder to him than they have to me. He’s so absorbed in his conversation that he hasn’t noticed Kuroko and I yet. On the other hand... 

Akashi’s eyes meet mine across the room. 

\--- 

He is stood opposite the couch furthest from Kise, nodding interestedly as he listens to an attractive young man – garbed in an exquisite Kiton two-piece suit - whom I vaguely recollect as being the mayor of some major city, but nonetheless, his eyes meet mine. Ever the consummate host, his face does not betray any emotion beyond utter interest in the man he is conversing with, and yet his eyes bore directly into my sockets and make a home in my brain. He’s here. 

After all these years, Akashi Seijuro is here. 

I watch him make his excuses with charm and grace, and then he’s walking towards me, an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Of the six of us (the Miracles, that is), Akashi looks to be the most untouched by the years, first and foremost because he doesn’t seem to have grown since I last saw him – he is far-and-away the shortest man in the room, and yet as always, acts as if he is entirely unaware of this fact. Physically, perhaps the only noticeable change, beyond the inevitable weathering of his face, is that he has filled out somewhat. His perfectly tailored ‘Miyahira Kotoro’ suit clings well to shoulders that are broader than I remember, and his chest seems more defined also. He has been looking after himself, that much is clear, but from his hair, to his eyes, to his hands to his feet, he is the same Akashi Seijuro, just as I remember. 

I open my mouth to call out a greeting, but find my mouth and throat dry, and my tongue tied. Every time the appropriate pleasantry seems within reach, my eyes catch the slight bounce of his hair, or a quirk of his eyebrow, and my brain seems to reset itself. I haven’t felt like this in a while, but it is not an unfamiliar feeling for me in Akashi’s presence. I remember telling Takao about it once, in confidence, and he told me it sounded entirely like a crush, and I can understand why he would think this. However, the idea that these physical symptoms are due to a crush is ridiculous. Believe it or not, there was a time in my life where I did strongly consider this as a possibility, and I subjected it to the same rigorous avenues of scientific enquiry that I do all my unfamiliar emotions. And I concluded that despite the physical and emotional paralysis that would often occur, I have never experienced any form of physical attraction to my Captain, and that a far more likely reality is that I simply respect Akashi immensely to the point of childish idolisation. Unseemly and embarrassing, yes, and far more indicative of latent dependency issues than I would like, but altogether much easier to manage than a long-lasting, unrequited homosexual infatuation. 

Even as I process these ancient musings, Akashi has reached me, and as I swallow the lump in my throat, I hold my hand out for him to shake, all too aware of the last time he looked up at me like this (that fateful day of the Inter-High semi-finals), where I rejected his handshake. 

The man I respect most in the world smiles up at me, kindness out-of-place yet strangely fitting in his eyes, and instead of shaking my hand, takes both of my hands gently in his. He looks down at them, and I am acutely aware of his thumb running along the backs of my taped fingers – I do not recoil at the oddly intimate contact, for to do so would be to deny Akashi his God-given absolutism. Akashi has always done exactly what Akashi will do, and because he is always absolute, he is always right. 

“Shintaro...” 

His voice is soft, and kind, and yet full of the weight of the years between us. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright as he speaks my first name with the tenderness of a brother. I try to speak, and no words come. 

And then he looks up at me again, smiling with his eyes, and gently squeezes both of my hands. 

“How very lost you have become... and how I have missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I must apologise for the time that it took me to write this chapter. All-in-all, this is just over an entire month’s work in about five-and-a-half thousand words, and the sheer amount of re-writing and editing that has gone into this is nothing to sniff at. Still... Chapter Six is finally here, and while I don’t think it was ever possible for me to be entirely happy with the outcome... I’m pretty damn close. Midorima meeting Akashi again has been one of those scenes that has played out in mind since I first conceived this idea. If you want to hear any of the ENOURMOUS amount of thought and headcanoning that went into that reunion, please do drop me a comment or a DM – to outline that here would easily take the wordcount up to about 7,000. 
> 
> I should probably mention that while this is not a crossover fic by any stretch of the imagination, this is kind-of a crossover fic. If you squint, you will be able to pick out cameos from characters in other franchises, although they may not always be easy to spot, and will more-often than not be pretty obscure – hint: there’s two in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I don’t know why Dennis Rodman had to be here, but he did. It's Dennis fucking Rodman. Copyright notice: I do not own Dennis Rodman.
> 
> I know this is a pretty long note, but while I think of it, I should just address that neither Kuroko nor Midorima are especially politically correct, and will often share or display views and ways of thinking that do not at all line up with my own. This is intentional. These are two Japenese men, approaching middle age, who view the world through their own lenses. They will have their own prejudices, their own character flaws, and their own mannerisms of speaking, and I do hope that rather than put you, as the reader, off, they endear you to them, and give the potential for character growth and development 
> 
> Thank you so much to those of you who have stuck it out and are still reading, and thank you and welcome to any new readers. As always, PLEASE talk to me about anything, I love human contact. I’m on twitter now, @melodramaticglassescharacter, so if you don’t want to comment, feel free to drop me a DM. 
> 
> Much love, and keep living, 
> 
> melodramaticglassescharacter


	7. .INTERLUDE//ozymandias.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude, of sorts  
> midorima and akashi's orbits collide  
> we see the world through kagami's eyes

It is an all-too-common misconception that some men are born to greatness, that others have greatness thrust upon them, and that some men, for all their striving and good intentions, are simply born to mediocrity. This is, at best, a pervasive lie of culture, and at worst, a self-perpetuating excuse for inactivity and defeatism. No man is born great. One-hundred-and-eight billion humans have, across the course of our long and storied history, eked out existence on this lonely ball of molten rock and water. Every single one has been born in blood and placenta, and every single one has and will die, and return to dust. No man, no matter the circumstances of birth, nor their upbringing, is destined for anything more or less than any other. Fate, chance, and circumstance shape us all, from the lowliest slave, to the loftiest king, to the most obscenely wealthy billionaire, and this leads me to the unshakeable belief that all men are created equal. We are all at the mercy of the fates, but they ravage us the same, and therefore, regardless of our station, our only recourse is to do everything humanly possible to build our own destiny, before the inevitable scattering of brick and ash, and the inescapable embrace of death. 

No man is born great. Some men, through the cunning of their mind, the sweat of their brow, and the mettle of their pasture, build greatness for themselves. Some men build their greatness into Kingdoms, Empires, and Dynasties, and exert their will and control over the fates of others. And yet, without exception, every Empire awaits a fall. Every great work, no matter how mighty or long-lasting, will eventually be scattered at the whim of the distant Divine. Therefore, it must be that only God is absolute. 

Man proposes. God deposes. If man proposes, it is the nature of God to depose. And if God deposes, man must propose, lest they be swept away. 

I truly believe this to be the world’s one and only truth. 

\--- 

Akashi and I sit on opposite ends of the large, concave couch that is front-and-centre in Akashi’s private box. There seems to be an understanding that all seats are fair game save for this one – this seat with the best view over the bustling arena below. Tip-Off isn’t for another hour, but the building is still utterly packed with fans. To my surprise, there is a three-on-three half-court game taking place on the court below – six kids in Alvark jerseys who Akashi says have been randomly selected from the crowd, and who are being cheered on and refereed by the club’s mascot. It’s a nice touch, as it gives the early fans something to watch, and is a good way of keeping some of the kids occupied before the two teams take to the court. The players should be beginning their warmup relatively soon, and even though I sit far above the main arena, I can feel the tension of anticipation in the air. Each and every person in the stands below me has come here to witness something incredible, and I would be very surprised if they were disappointed. 

If Kise has noticed me at all, then I haven’t heard anything, but he has found Kuroko, and the two of them are now stood leaning against the bar, Kise chattering excitedly away and Kuroko half-listening, half watching the rest of the room. Seeing them next to each other really highlights just how much Kuroko has changed. They are the same age, and yet Kise looks every bit the young, beautiful actor. Kuroko, on the other hand, looks to be well and truly into his middle age (it really is that ridiculous moustache that does it). Yet both share a common sparkle in their eyes and smiles that mirror each other’s. It then strikes me that I have been entirely separated from my old teammates. 

I have no idea what they have been up to. Of course, I know of their careers – I have seen enough kids wearing Murasakibara’s Los Angeles jersey to know what happened to him. Kise is a semi-frequent feature on movie billboards, Aomine and Kagami were only ever going to play basketball, and Akashi... is Akashi. But I don’t know anything else. I have no idea if Kuroko and Kise are smiling so much because they have met again for the first time in years, or because they have remained friends all this time and meet up frequently. I have no idea if Aomine and Kise still enjoy each other's company, if Akashi spends time with any of the old team outside of a business capacity, if Aomine and Momoi are still joined at the hip... I do not know these people anymore, and as much as I always saw myself as somewhat parallel to their convoluted social orbit, it is uncomfortable to not know. 

However, all is not lost. Kuroko is with me, Kise is across the room, and Akashi is sat two feet from me on the same couch, sipping a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The stars have aligned. This is what the universe has for me today, but what I make of the circumstances it up to me. 

Man proposes. God deposes. And God has already deposed me. 

\--- 

“Akashi-san...” 

His face as he turns to look at me is not cold, but there is displeasure there, somehow. 

“Shintaro, your respect is patronising. You do not serve me, and I have already allowed you to look down on me. I will consider any further use of this honorific an insult to the affection that I bear you. I will accept kun, or my name. Anything else, I shall consider defiance. Do you understand?” 

I lower my head. 

“I understand... Akashi. I was going to ask you how you knew where to find me.” 

He turned to look back down at the court below, reaching for his glass. 

“My income comes from, and travels through, a great many places; such is the business that I have created. A small portion of this income comes, on occasion, through Uoshin Nogizaka. I was informed the day you handed in your resume. From there... well, you ended up at Tetsuya’s preferred Izakaya all by yourself, and... 

He takes a lazy, languid sip on his wine. 

“It is the easiest thing in the world to let the pieces move of their own accord.” 

His manner of speaking is as familiar to me as my own rituals and routines, but after all these years of distance, it rubs me ever-so-slightly the wrong way. 

“The pieces? Is that what we are to you?” 

The faintest ghost of a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. 

“Life is as shogi, and all the world moves accordingly. However, this does not change the fact that you are my friend. Had you not already been on your path back to me, I would, of course, have intervened. As it was, Kuroko was already on my guest list for this evening. The extra ticket was nothing...” 

He trails off, deep in thought, and then turns to smile at me. 

“I have often imagined how I would engineer our reunion. I have hypothesised the where, and the how; the strings I could pull and the pieces I could manipulate... and yet, it feels far more fitting to allow the tide of fate to carry you back to me.” 

He pauses, and I find myself watching as he breathes in, and then out. 

“Tell me, Shintaro... how do you feel?” 

His question throws me off guard, and I find myself nervously fidgeting with my tie – the tie that is beginning to feel increasingly like the red string of fate, wrapped around my neck. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Have you forgotten me so easily? I always mean exactly what I say. In this moment, how do you feel?” 

In some ways, Akashi is similar to Kuroko. In others, he is not. With Kuroko, these sorts of questions come like a curveball. With Akashi, I always get the feeling that he is simply placing another piece on the board. 

“I would put forward that it is you that has forgotten me. Feelings are not something I indulge often... and certainly not to my own awareness.” 

He shakes his head softly. 

“I know you better than that. Your feelings are simply worn within your chest, rather than on your sleeve. Are you nervous?” 

“I... Yes. Everything that has transpired in the last two days has been entirely unexpected. I feel... I feel helpless in the face of the circumstances around me. I feel uneasy in this environment. I feel... Truthfully, I feel cautious and suspicious of your motives in inviting me here... But I feel excited too. Excited to watch basketball, excited to be with you again, and...” 

Unexpectedly, my hand shakes. Once. In fact, it is an involuntary spasm of my left arm, one that I cannot put down to any external or internal stimulus. It takes me a second before I realise that I have pulled my tie uncomfortably tight in the process. 

“Shit...” 

Akashi is already on his feet, gently returning his glass to the table and moving quickly to stand in front of me. And then, to my surprise, he drops to his knees, face warmed by a smile, and hands snaking out to gently take a hold of my tie. His face is level with my chest, but he is close. There is only one man who would dare come this close to me uninvited, and he is permitted only by the fact that to challenge him would be as challenging God. 

“Please... keep talking. Allow me.” 

He... said please? 

As he gently and deftly undoes my tie, I swallow the shock in my throat and try to gather my thoughts together. 

“I feel, most strongly... some strange blend of anxiety and curiosity... like a mixing of paints. For the first time in many years, I am not in control of my own destiny... and yet in this limbo, Kuroko has found me. He has convinced me to pick up a basketball, and he has brought me here, into the path of people I...” 

I take a sharp intake of breath as his fingertip brushes against my collarbone, but I do my best to continue. After all, Akashi asked me to. 

“Into the path of people that I left... I worry that you see all of this as me... well, coming home, but I do not feel that way. Instead, I feel...” 

Akashi looks up at me as he ties my tie into a double-Windsor, his hands gentle and his face attentive. 

I take a deep breath, and with one gentle tug on my tie, Akashi stands and places a kind, fleeting hand on my shoulder before returning to his seat next to me. 

“Go on, Shintaro. I am listening.” 

I don’t belong here. I do not belong here. What on earth am I doing in this place, with the man who should have been my best man listening to feelings that I have neither indulged nor acknowledged in nigh-on twenty years? I take a deep breath and almost choke on it, and every muscle in my left arm clenches suddenly, my hand sharply clawing into a fist and clattering against my leg before I have a chance to get it under control. I don’t understand how in just 24 hours I have gone from talking with Kuroko in a bar, to sitting with Akashi in a private box full of the rich and famous, spouting such self-pitying, emotional bullshit to the man that, in many respects, taught me to mask and repress my emotions in the first place. Yes, my father was the first to instil in me the need for control and coldness (I still bear the scars in my soul from those lessons), but Akashi was the one to lead by example, to inspire me to desensitise myself to the world around me and to tackle the storms of life with reason, logic, and apathy. I am not desensitised now. I am an exposed nerve, every cool brush of wind bringing new pain – there is a pit of sickness in my stomach that I cannot shake, an ache in my head, and every voice in the room seems louder, clashing together into one singular cacophony that makes me want to run as fast as I can away from this place. Embarrassingly, I can feel myself beginning to sweat, and I have no idea what to do about this sudden attack of self-doubt, uncontrolled emotion, and... and anxiety. 

I am having an anxiety attack. 

What an embarrassing, inconvenient pain. My hands move to my forehead in some childish attempt to cover my face, and I look down pointedly at my knees – the crease in my suit trousers, the exquisite blend of the fabrics, the high thread-count, the slight shaking of my left leg... 

Akashi clears his throat, and I look up to see him reaching out - an open, ornate cigarette case in his hand. 

“Here... Turkish on the left, Bhutanese on the right. You are welcome to smoke where you are, but if you need a breather, we can go outside.” 

And that is the other thing that I cannot, for the life of me, wrap my head around – since when has Akashi Seijuro been kind? Yes, I have always enjoyed his company more than most, but the Akashi that I know is shrewd, more than a little prideful, single-minded and utterly ruthless. And while that Akashi is still there, I am now faced with an Akashi that is interested in my detailed feelings, who has no problem getting on his knees and tying my tie (that I am perfectly capable of typing myself, by the way), and who can apparently notice my having an anxiety attack despite the fact that I myself have no idea what those look like for me. 

I manage a slightly shaking breath and take one of the Turkish cigarettes. 

“How...” 

I trail off, and Akashi chuckles gently. 

“Emperor Eye. If I can read in your legs when you are going to shoot, does it not stand to reason that I can read when you are experiencing anxiety?” 

I shake my head, rolling my eyes as I feel the beginnings of a laugh in my stomach. 

“I was going to say, how did you know that I smoke?” 

“Oh, that?” 

Out of nowhere, a man wearing a similar bowtie to the bartender appears out of nowhere and passes Akashi a gold-leafed cigarette lighter. The Captain of the Generation of Miracles gives me a sly, predatory smile, and expertly flicks the flame into life. 

“Tetsuya told me... He has an incorrigible habit of texting me while drunk.” 

Kuroko, you lying bastard. 

\--- 

Far below, in the underbelly of the Arena Tachikawa Tachihi, Kagami Taiga steps out of the locker room showers – towel slung over his shoulder, washbag in hand, dick swinging in the non-existent wind – and strides confidently into the locker room... much to the indignation and mockery of his teammates. 

“Jesus, Taiga! You’ll have someone’s eye out with that!” 

Kagami laughs, darting over to the offending teammate (Darius Jones, Alvark Tokyo starting Center) and sharply slapping him with the end of his towel – bizarrely, back when Kagami was a kid living in the states, DJ had been one of the younger hangers-on at the courts where he and Tatsuya played. This sort of banter was entirely commonplace. 

“Don't hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful, DJ! You shoot like a blind man anyway, so no difference there.” 

DJ offers a half-hearted kick in Kagami’s general direction, and chuckles as the B. League’s reigning MVP dances out of the way with surprising grace, slapping a hand on another teammate’s shoulder and plonking himself down on the chair in front of his rocker. 

“And if you knew how to pass the rock, that would matter. But you don’t, so it doesn’t.” 

The teammate whose shoulder Kagami had slapped (Tyler Dorsey, Alvark Tokyo starting shooting guard, and Greek National Team regular) laughs loudly, threading his right leg through a compression sleeve. 

“Eat your words, DJ – you saw the stat-sheet last time out. The mighty Kagami managed ten whole dimes! ” 

DJ rolls his eyes, taking the studs out of his ears and placing them carefully inside his locker. 

“Whatever, that last one was a fumble – it doesn’t count!” 

Kagami stretches high over his head like a cat, and DJ sharply turns away in affected disgust as, once again, Kagami’s dick comes dangerously close to assaulting his face. 

“A fumble perfectly placed into your driving lane, big boy. The stats don’t lie.” 

He opens his locker and (finally) pulls out a pair of boxer shorts, sitting back down on the chair to put them on. 

“But while we’re on the subject of my dick... Yo Dorsey!” 

Tyler shakes his head in despair. 

“Why do I get the feeling that...” 

“Who’s bigger; the Greek Freak,or me?” 

Tyler rolls his eyes in exasperation. 

“Giannis. In every possible way. Stop bringing me into this imaginary competition you have going on – he’s on the other side of the ocean, and the only time he played you he dropped forty on and dunked on you so hard I felt it here in Tokyo.” 

Kagami laughed, flipping the bird across the changing room. 

“Exactly! Shit like that really lights a fire in me.” 

“Yeah, well save some of that fire for players you can actually play.” 

“No issues there, Dorsey. Hey DJ! Do me a favour and remind me what my box score was last time out.” 

With a roll of his eyes, DJ obliges. 

“Thirty-two points, thirteen rebounds, ten assists, three blocks, and a steal.” 

A tribal whoop goes up from the assembled players, and Kagami basks in their praise for a brief moment. 

Tyler Dorsey chuckles, and starts to lace up his sneakers. 

“Like I said, the stats don’t lie, lads.” 

Kagami is triumphant, and punches the air. 

“And tonight., the truth shall set you free, boys! Who fancies putting on a show?” 

There’s an enthusiastic grunt of assent, and a brief pause, before, predictably, Kagami breaks the silence. 

“Yo Genki, you got any of that cologne I like?” 

From the corner of the locker room, Motoki ‘Genki’ Kojima, Alvark Tokyo Captain and starting point guard, gives a quiet chuckle. 

“What’s the occasion?” 

Kagami (still only wearing his underwear) jumps to his feet and bounds over to his Captain’s chair. 

“Motherfucking Mikawa SeaHorses, Captain! My plan is to kick ass and smell fresh doing it.” 

Captain Kojima affectionately shoves Kagami away, and opens his locker, taking a bottle of cologne and handing it over. 

“And of course, this has nothing to do with wanting to smell nice for Mikawa’s oh-so-gorgeous captain...” 

Kagami generously sprays his pulse points and chest, and passes the bottle back. 

“Some nerd back in high school told me that of all the senses, smell sticks most in the memory...” 

And he grins in such a way that every player in the room knows that a storm is coming. 

“And I’m gonna give Aho-mine a beat-down he’ll never forget.” 

There is silence in the locker room for a moment, each player weighing the declaration and sealing it in the part of their psyche that thrives on competition. 

And Captain Kojima nods. 

“Good. He’s all yours. Just remember what we discussed – signal for the switch over the screen, and call for the fast help. I’m not calling any double teams on Aomine is I can help it, so stay in front of him and wherever possible, make him beat you from range... After the last game, DJ could do with a few more rebounds in the stat sheet. 

Kojima, already changed and game-ready, stands to his feet, and it is the mark of an exceptional captain that every player turns to listen. 

“Every player on that team is faster than us in transition, so unless you find a clear lane, slow the ball down and we’ll beat them in the half-court game. Dorsey, I’m going to need your A-game on defence. I know you’ve held Mibuchi before, but never with Izuki feeding him the ball. Keep an eye out for incoming passes, and don’t bite on his fakes – make him think you know exactly what he’s going to do, and be ready for the pass to Aomine. Use DJ’s screens as much as you can when you’re attacking, and be patient: if you can’t get to your spot on your own, use the team – we'll find you. DJ, we only have a slight height advantage overall , but you’re the favourite on the glass today. Work hard, and find me or Dorsey for the outlet pass. Aomine and Izuki are going to be glued to Kagami after the defensive board, so don’t let that Eagle Eye steal your passes. I will facilitate the pick and roll and call plays when needed, but don’t expect me to drive and kick – Izuki Shun is one of the smartest defenders in the league, and I don’t fancy having my rock stolen. Hot hearts and cool heads; look for the extra pass... and if all else fails and the shot-clock is running down, box out and get the ball to Kagami.” 

He flashes the room an easy, confident smile. 

“We all saw that Kaz Nagatsuka article yesterday. We all know that Japan Times doesn’t even have us making the finals this year. We all know that Aomine’s a shoo-in for their MVP this year.” 

The Captain chuckles at the face Kagami makes. 

“Kaz Nagatsuka is, of course, entitled to his opinion... but let’s fight hard and call him on his bullshit, okay?” 

Every face in the locker room is steel, and Kojima takes a deep breath. 

“WHAT TIME IS IT?” 

And every voice in the locker room responds, 

“GAME TIME! FIGHT!” 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt too short to be a full chapter, and the idea of an interlude just felt right to me. I am utterly thrilled to be able to finally write the older, more emotionally mature Akashi that I have always wanted, and I do so hope that he resonated with you as much as he did with me.
> 
> Finally, the elephant in the room... KAGAMI'S HERE! Yeah, I tried writing the basketball game through Midorima's perch in Akashi's box, and it felt far too distant and awkwardly worded. Thus, I have decided to take you guys into the uber-competitive, cali dude bro world of Kagami's POV. Hope you like it, I found it a blast to write.
> 
> Side note: Genki Kojima and Tyler Dorsey are both real players, and Genki really is the current Alvark Tokyo starting PG. DJ... Yeah, I made him up.
> 
> love y'all, and thanks for reading,
> 
> keep living
> 
> melodramaticglassescharacter


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